Scarlet Fire
by Riddelly
Summary: The Mockingjay's rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory. Cowritten with Natalie Nallareet.
1. Chapter 1

**[[ the 24th hunger games ]]**

_Ages ago, the land formerly known as North America was wracked with devastation. Natural disasters, disease, and war broke out in sickening harmony, effectively bringing the continent to ruins. From the ashes of this defeat rose a new world: Panem, a glistening Capitol ringed by thirteen loyal Districts, pledged to work together to common advantage. Yet peace could not be maintained. Wrath exploded from District 13, crushing the tranquility in a fit of flames and fury. After long years of discordant violence, the Capitol triumphed, and in its victory instigated a new tradition, a reminder of its absolute power; a ritual sacrifice, the offer of one boy and one girl from each remaining District to battle to the death in a televised arena. _

_Now, twenty-three years after District 13's defeat, Panem finds itself immersed in one of the most trying Games yet. Eighteen of twenty-four tributes have been destroyed, leaving only the strongest alive—and just barely. The slaughter is coming to an end, and its final hours, the goriest of them all, will pale in consequence beside the actions soon to follow._

**xxx**

The blast of sound blazed through the sky, caused birds to squawk out before taking flight—a noise that caused Jean Valjean's heart to lurch within his chest.

The sharp crunches under-toe were dangerous; Jean knew that, and tried to quiet every step as much as he could, but there was only so much he could do while in such a hurry. A cannon blast spurred his step, signaling death in its wake. Voices whispered in his head, hissing the possibilities that the cannon could be referring to, but Jean forced himself to ignore its call and continue onwards at his fast pace. The woods that he traversed were thin, and he knew that if any other tributes lurked in the trees' skeletal shadows, they'd have a clear shot. But all he could do was continue on his journey, trying to block all of these venomous thoughts from his mind. Despite all this, he managed to step through the underbrush without being detected, reaching his campsite without anyone else spotting him. The clearing that he found once exiting the woods was very small, unremarkable besides the crevice in the ground that Fantine had found as the perfect place for them to camp in. _Fantine_, Jean thought in one breath, imagining his one ally that he possessed in this insanity. Where was she? He slid down into the small cavern, gazing around the area. There was nothing there besides the backpack of supplies they had tucked away in the corner. No Fantine; she was gone. Perhaps this wasn't something that should have frightened Jean; she was probably simply out attempting to find food, as he had been doing. Alas, the cannon had set his nerves on edge, and when he gazed around to see her missing, it was only with her possible death in mind. He had to get to her, make sure she was fine and he was just being stupidly careful.

He came back up from the ground, his eyes searching the dusty soil for tracks. Indeed, they were there, showing the path she had taken, still fresh in the ground. She had left willingly, and that was a meager consolation. For the ninth time yet, Jean cursed the stupidity of separating at all. She had just been so peaceful when leaving, and they had been in such need for food. Stupid,_ stupid_; a vice that he paid dearly for now. He followed her footprints, thinking forlornly of how easy it was to track her, how so many others could have done the same as he was doing now...how easily that cannon could have been her. He passed through the clearing and back into the woods, stepping through the brambles that dug into his calves, which already possessed a thick layer of scratches and dirt that barred most of the branches from adding to the misery.

"Fantine?" He spoke her name into the silence, his head raised and alert, ready for anyone who managed to hear him with a knife concealed beneath his sleeve. However, to his greatest relief, there were no intruders—to his greater disappointment, Fantine didn't reply to his response. Jean attempted to push down the emotions that were stirring inside him and pressing in around him, fogging his judgment. _What if she's dead? Her death would be on your hands, you left her, you left her..._ He continued on his journey.

Jean was still over ten feet away when he spotted the huddled lump lying on the path before him. It was just a back, turned away, its shoulders jerking ever so slightly. Even so, Jean recognized the form as the figure of dear Fantine, and raced to her side, only looking away from her to make sure that they were still alone.

"Fantine!" he breathed, barely managing to keep his voice at the measured whisper that was so necessary. He knelt beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder while his other hand felt at her pulse. "Fantine, oh dear God, be alive and breathing."

"J-jean?" she whispered weakly, turning towards him, her normally beautiful face marred with largely swollen stings. The breath vanished from his lungs as he identified her marks as those of a trackerjacker's; every bit of showing skin was blanketed in the deadly stings.

"How did this happen?" Jean breathed, clasping her hand in his.

"District Four member...lead him away from our...camp, to the nest," Fantine panted, a painful smile creeping up on her lips. But, as quickly as it had come, the happiness vanished, and she attempted to lift her head from the ground, her neck straining as she whispered. "Jean, the cameras...my child can't see me like...this."

"Hush now, Fantine," Jean soothed her, lifting her from the ground, no longer caring that he wouldn't be properly at the ready to defend himself if needed. "Do not fear for that now; everything will be alright." The two of them fled from the woods, rushing down the forest path he had come from with great speed. They were far too harried by Fantine's pain to really take in the fact of how lucky they were to still not have any more visitors. They sped away with grace, barely disturbing the rest of the woods as they fled. He managed to carry her all the way back to their campsite, forcing the two of them through the crevice and into their safe cavern.

"You're safe in here," Jean promised, looking over her state with a white face. He knew how deadly this much trackerjacker venom generally was, but knew little beyond the need to retrieve the stingers in terms of helping her. Jean reached down into the backpack he had retrieved at the very beginning of the Games, pulling forth a pair of tweezers that he had previously thought to be completely useless as a tool in this madness. As she sat there fretfully, he took some water from his pouch, using some of their precious supply to wash away the grime from her wounds, before taking the tweezers and gingerly pulling the stingers out, one by one. She twisted and gasped out in pain as he did this, on the very brink of consciousness.

"Hush now," Jean repeated, taking his free hand to pin her to the ground at her shoulders so she would sit still. "You can't let Cosette see you like this." It was a dirty trick, really, to use this truth against the ailing woman, but it worked and she stopped stirring.

As they did this, Jean's mind went elsewhere, to days that had gone by, and to the one time that he had seen the child Fantine was so worried about. The two of them being from different districts, it wasn't a surprise they hadn't run into each other before; Fantine from District Eight, and himself from District Six. So the first time he spotted her was while watching over the reapings before arriving to the Capitol, a sight that he would never forget.

As the ceremony started, and the Capitol representative of that district took his merry time in handpicking the fate of this year's tribute, Fantine had stood out in the crowd of girls waiting with bated breath. She was one of the older ones, but still at the ripe age of seventeen. What had been so striking about her was that she had held a small child by the hands. Not only was this child beautiful in every sense, clinging so readily to Fantine's hand, but she was Fantine's daughter. Such a little woman did not rightfully deserve a world where her mother was to be televised in a ring of life and death. And yet the slip of paper had brushed against the representative's fingers, held tightly in his plastic grasp, the name slipping from his lips.

_"Fantine Tholomyés."_

As she knew she must, Fantine gave her daughter, Cosette, one final hug, before allowing the Peacekeepers to lead her up to the stage. No one took pity, or at least enough so to spare both the mother and daughter this painful separation. Perhaps that wasn't altogether true, because Jean Valjean had found pity filling his heart and spilling out through his lungs after watching Fantine's reaping. Despite his mentor's warning of how she was a hopeless cause, Jean had agreed to be Fantine's friend and ally from the very beginning. Neither of them had been seen as formidable foes—Jean's high scoring in personal training was the only thing that got them any sponsors at all. Through their meager support though, they had lasted a long while, and as Jean knelt beside her now, they were two out of the remaining six tributes left in the arena. This had not been an easy task, obviously, but one that had proved to the watchers that they were a good enough team to survive, this far anyways. However, it was doubtless that any who had put their money or their hopes into Fantine, and Jean now watched with tears in their eyes, knowing how hopeless her case was at this point.

"Jean, I must survive," Fantine whispered frantically, only her sheer determination keeping her awake and words audible at that point in time. "Cosette... Cosette needs me. Jean, I must see Cosette once more."

"Yes, Fantine, and you will," Jean assured her, biting the edge to his own lies. He worked diligently, carefully picking out every stinger from her puffy skin. "Just hold on. Can you do that for me? Can you do that for Cosette?"

"Yes," Fantine responded, her voice barely more than a breath. "For Cosette and for you... oh, how I long to see her smile, her cheerful face grinning up at me. She is quite beautiful, as I'm sure you saw."

"Indeed I did," Jean nodded, plucking another large stinger from below her neck. "Save your breath, save your strength."

"No, Jean, you do not understand..." Fantine whispered, the smallest of smiles on her lips. "Speaking of my beloved Cosette strengthens me... with every breath. I can feel her here beside me, her presence stirring life through the pain."

"That is well, Fantine," Jean agreed. "But it is also true that rest is the best thing you can do for your recovery; to move in the direction of seeing Cosette before you once again."

"I suppose you are right," Fantine murmured, wincing back at he pulled a stinger from her arm. The worst ones lived on her neck and face, but he dared not try to pull those out until she was fast asleep. Sleep was very important, and Jean hoped that she could claim it before the venom started to play tricks on her mind, building nightmarish fantasies that swam before her as clear as reality. He wanted to spare her that pain. "Be assured, Jean, I will rest. When I awake, it will be to a dawn that is closer to my beloved child, Cosette."

"Yes," Jean sighed in relief, as Fantine's eyes flickered over her eyes, masking her pupils so that only the dream world stirred beneath them. "Sleep well, Fantine." With those words, he arched his neck downwards and kissed her feverish brow. Speaking no more, he took up his tweezers again, and worked away at the stingers that had nested into her cheeks and neck. How he wished he knew plants better, so that he could find some sort of herb that would help him tend to her wounds. Some sort of medicine from sponsors was a wistful thing to hope for at this point in time, since sending anything in would be far too expensive at this point in time. All he could do was take out as much as the venom as possible and sit by her side in protection. He had been blind in the necessity of getting food, and hadn't realized how stupid it had been to split up from the side of Fantine, who had been the complete opposite in mindsets, and who had been clever enough to take out another tribute, but not fast enough to get away herself. Hopefully it wasn't as bad as he feared, and she would be fine. But perhaps, in this awful game, it was better to slip away to death instead of through some bloody wound that sapped away her strength; for, truly, there wasn't much chance for either of them in the Hunger Games.


	2. Chapter 2

The woods were hazy, soft light pulsing through the verdant boughs of the towering trees around her. That was the first thing Fantine was aware of, the misted sight sinking into her consciousness like honey onto her tongue, slow and thick and heavy. The vision felt strangely sticky on her eyes, and she blinked slowly, her lashes tickling against her heated cheeks. Something felt wrong, but wrong enough that she had no way to sense the actual level of departure from reality, how this was any different from the normal clarity that she couldn't even remember.

Couldn't remember. There were so many things that she couldn't remember, and her chest was tight under an invisible weight, so that for a moment she thought there was actually something there, dark and pressing like iron bonds, circulating around her ribcage and squeezing, crushing... but, no, there was nothing, and she mustn't let herself fade away into nonsense, _he _was coming... he hadn't left her yet. Him. The only one she could trust. Jean Valjean.

The name was like a balmy tickle to her collarbone, amusing in its smoothness, and she found her lips tracing the contours of its syllables, bringing them into a smile and causing a hollow giggle to rattle her throat. Of course her sole friend would be one with the name of a joker. It was only a wicked reflection of the dark route her fate had taken, her destiny's determination to make the greatest of fools out of her before ripping her apart.

Everything was so pressingly vague, so unclear. Colors and sounds half-formed at the corner of her awareness before whisking themselves away, and she couldn't hold onto them long enough to figure out what they were, rendering each of them like a dream caught in the fragile net of dawn waking. Something was within her, within her mind, but it was so teasing and elusive that she didn't even bother to pursue it, instead letting herself lie back, feel the burn of dry grass against her exposed shoulders and take in the nonsensical whizzing.

Her rough blouse was torn, ripped down the back where a sword stroke nearly incapacitated her at the Cornucopia, and her lank hair lay across her forehead, damp with the clutch of fever sweat. Nausea and hunger simultaneously crawled their way around her stomach, worming in and out, twining together until they were indistinguishable from one another. Her lips were dry to the point where she could barely feel the touch of air against their chapped, raw skin. She was horrifically sick, and perhaps some part of her knew this, the part that remained within her curled, emaciated body, kept her heart pumping against her brittle ribs even as her lungs strived to cease. Her head spun in boundless swoops, however, and to try and string a thought together was a piteous thing even to imagine, too absurd to hope for. She was a wreck. Destroyed, and only waiting for her shattered pieces to be scooped away.

And yet, in that waiting, her disease found a way to bless her.

It was within echoing visions of a thousand other things, family and friends and enemies and animals and strange quivering forms that she could put no name to, that she detected the figure.

A small silhouette, framed in a burnished corona of gold like the celestial glow of a cherub. It was the form of a girl—petite, but not skinny; rather, her limbs were gently plump in a way that was far beyond wishful, ranging instead into the realm of utter impossibility. Pale curls tumbled about the dimpled, pink-cheeked face, and teeth gleamed like inlaid pearls under a delicate nose and wide, distant silver eyes. It was a beautiful creature painted before her with the colors of her innermost desires and memories, the very image of her daughter.

"Cosette," Fantine sighed, the name gracing her lips with warm reverence. "Cosette... my child, you are ever so beautiful."

Cosette smiled hesitantly, and it didn't matter at all that it was absurd for her to be here, that she had no place amidst the sea of merciless killers pitted against one another in this cruel arena. Because, now, there was nothing but her shy grin, awash in the shade of the evening woods, and Fantine felt a lingering warmth begin to breathe through her chest, molten gold taking root in her heart and generating a ripple of comforting numbness along her breastbone. She found her fingers shaking against the dry grass, lifting themselves against the transparent iron that still choked her every movement. She had to reach her, had to reach Cosette—had to feel the softness of her skin, tuck her firm little form under Fantine's own chin, hold her close and be assured that she would never depart again.

"Come along, now, dearest Cosette," she continued. Her own words were barely audible, especially beside the humming buzz that seemed to constantly tremble her eardrums, but that didn't matter, because Cosette clearly heard, locked as her pale eyes were with Fantine's dark ones. "Evening approaches... you mustn't be out in the forest alone, my darling. There are creatures out here, there are..."

Suddenly, forming words was too much, and her throat ached with a swift scorch of dryness, shooting from under her tongue to the base of her lungs. She let out a soft moan, and her hand, extended as it had been towards the silvered apparition, fell gracelessly to the ground once more. She was shivering though she felt no cold, and all of her senses found themselves wreathed in horrible uncertainty, echoing with thick swirls of abstract mist, drawn together only by the sight of Cosette, a shot of starlight in the depths of the dark hurricane that her awareness had become. Fantine's shoulders heaved, and laughter rang out in her head—the laughter, she knew all at once, of the other tributes, the girls, those whose cannons had already fired. Surely they were gone, for she could distinctly remember Jean Valjean's touch on her shoulder and his somber reminder that she was free of their mocking wrath; and yet their voices were here now, haunting her, teasing her.

"No," she mumbled thickly, defying their high-pitched, grotesquely piercing giggles, hating the way that they drowned out the little gusts of Cosette's steady exhalations. "No, leave my daughter alone! Don't hurt her, she has done no wrong!"

"Fantine," a breath sounded at her ear. "Dear Fantine, there are only hours left. Hours left before the Games draw to a close, and you will be able to see her again. You will be able to see your daughter. She waits for you, in District Eight—even now, she watches you. Have faith. The darkness is near a close."

"Cosette," Fantine slurred, but Jean's voice was anchoring, and she soon found the haziness of her thoughts pulled away, Cosette's wavering form with it—she flickered briefly, like a candle flame, before melting into the shapes and shadows of the forest. Fantine stiffened, her voice heightening to a shriek, and then there were arms around her, a shoulder against which she was shaking, lips at her forehead murmuring steady reassurances.

"Soon, soon you will be able to see her. There are so few left... just hold on."

"Cosette... Cosette, please, come back, my daughter..."

"We are close. We are close, and getting closer, and then you'll have her again." His hand moved against her hollowed cheek, thumb brushing away the hot tears that she hadn't even realized to be gathered there, and she found her head tilting back, just far enough to regard his wearied face through the mistiness that still swamped her vision.

"Jean, I pray... you must... help her... help my Cosette, for I shall surely be too frail..."

"Anything," he promised emptily, as though it wasn't an impossible promise, like there was some way that both of them could make it out. The truth, dominating his awareness and teasing at the edges of hers, was the precise opposite, but she had no need to voice such horrific reality, and he was no one to correct her when she was so near the edge, clinging with sickened desperation to those few hopes that still managed to stay alive, distorted and strangled, within her shaking chest. "Cosette will be safe," Jean went on, "no matter what. If there is one thing that emerges from these Games, it will be the happiness of your daughter."

"She will love the victor's manor," Fantine trailed on thoughtlessly, a vacant smile twisting her pale features. "And the luxuries within it... her dresses shall be inlaid with gemstones, every one of them. My Cosette will be raised into luxury. She will know nothing but happiness. Not hunger, or exhaustion, or overwork... they are demons, and they will not lay a hand on my angel."

"Not a hand," Jean repeated. She wondered then, in an immensely delayed surge, where he had come from—why he was here, and why he hadn't been before; her mind didn't stretch far enough back beyond that to bring any more curiosities to the surface. Had she been only the slightest bit more lucid, she would realize, perhaps, that he had been away to scout more, to continue gathering the supplies which they needed so desperately—and that, now, he must have failed to find any sort of medicine, anything to soothe her raging illness. Anything that he had obtained had been abandoned when he saw her shaking so hopelessly, and so he held on now to nothing but her, all else forgotten, cradling her head to the crook of his neck.

"Pearls will look the best on her, for she is like a pearl, herself... born of roughness, carved of perfection. Nothing could stain her grace—no, nothing at all. Pearl necklaces, I do think, just a few of them, and for special occasions... they will be her signature."

She sighed, then, and the release of her lungs was quick to trigger some imperfection in her throat, catching and launching her into a fit of coughs so violent and devastating that the barest hint of a metallic flavor began climbing in her throat, reaching up to clasp at the back of her tongue. She whined softly, and Jean's arms tightened around her, but did nothing to suppress the visions that were suddenly rampant once more—Cosette was gone, replaced by a sea of horrors, the other tributes with their knives lashing and their eyes aglow, hordes of disfigured wild beasts, staggering shapes of monsters that didn't even come near reality, the fodder of children's fables, all the more chilling for their simplicity. She was trembling, and then she was nothing _but _the trembling as wave after wave of raw terror crashed in and around her, taking over her, erasing the last traces of comfort that her companion's steel grip provided.

"Cosette," she cried out again, and his voice was in her ear, weaving through the hisses and moans of the nightmares surrounding her.

"Hush, now, we mustn't be heard..."

"My Cosette—Jean—Jean, you must find her. You must protect her! You cannot let her be hurt, cannot let her be harmed, she cannot be touched by the havoc of this world..."

"I will find her. I will." She could see nothing now, nothing beyond the diseased armies of her feverish imagination, and so his tears were invisible to her, even as they ran down his chin and found root in her own tangled hair. "I will protect her at all costs, Fantine, I promise. Do not let Cosette be a concern to you. Sleep with the knowledge that she will remain in my care... sleep to that."

And she did. Slowly, then faster and faster, the fear melted away, taking the whole of her with it. The lingering taste of blood was the first to vanish, then the haunting wails, leaving her awash in thundering silence. The gales of her gory vision spun themselves away, then, and she only faintly felt her neck giving in, her head thudding forward completely and slipping down his shoulder as his arms cinched and tightened around her prominent ribs.

Cosette would be safe, she reminded herself thickly.

And so she ceased.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing was a trustworthy variable in the Hunger Games; nothing. Perhaps Fantine's presence had been one of the things Jean had come to count upon, but even that had fallen away at this point, and he had always known that they couldn't both get out alive, he supposed he always had a better chance. And yet, _still_, he had been foolish enough to hope that the two of them would be the last ones there, and he could find a way to end himself so that Fantine could go back to the world where she was so sorely needed by a little girl stuck at home. Maybe then he could have rid the world of the possibility of an innocent child watching her mother die on live television—perhaps Jean could have died knowing he'd saved the world of that agony. Alas, not even that. He had been managing after her death, though, by just blocking it out, and concentrating on the one thing that clung to his mind, the golden promise. _My Cosette—Jean—Jean, you must find her. You must protect her!_ Her words still echoed in Jean's mind, pounding into his skull with the sheer desperation of her tone. He didn't even want to win the game for his own gain anymore, his own life, but instead for Cosette. The little child, whose poor little face had been seen by him only briefly through the televised reaping of her mother, and since then had had his entire hopes and motivation poured into her frail form. He had to win the games, if only to protect her from the life Fantine was so determined that she shouldn't have.

At this point in the games, it was hard to simply survive. Food was growing scarce in the wild, and Jean couldn't help but believe that the Gamemakers had designed it that way. However, everyone seemed to be surviving through the gigantic stack of food that the Careers had pinned up at the Cornucopia. Even Jean, the only non-Career tribute left, was living off of it, stealing from the edges since they really weren't vigilant enough. Really, it was easy pickings.

Two days after Fantine had died, Jean made his way towards the food pile once again. At this point, everyone was on the edge, knowing that it had been quite some time since a cannon had shot through the sky, and the Head Gamemaker was doubtlessly about to pull something out from his sleeve to get these Games moving once again. Jean made his way down the path, quietly padding across the dry earth, through bramble that he had pushed aside enough that they gave him no bother as he neared the Cornucopia. He could see the three other tributes, sitting around a large fire they had concocted in the center of their area, their worried faces shimmering in the warm light. Jean had thought that at this point in the game, they'd be more guarded about their supplies, but they sat unfazed by how open their only means of food was to the world. No matter; Jean was relieved that they were so lax on security, and crept up closer and closer to the food, his gaze frozen upon the other tributes.

_Boom!_ The explosion shook through the arena, blowing him and the other tributes back into their separate ways into the woods. The intensity of the noise blinded his hearing for a few seconds, blurring him into a strange numbness that affected both sounds and sight. For a moment, he just lay there in the grass, the trees trembling above him in the stunned effect. When he finally did rise to his knees, it was to see that almost the entire collection of food had been completely obliterated. There wasn't a single crumb of edible morsels left, besides a single loaf of bread positioned in the middle of the destruction. It wasn't clear how such a thing could have possibly survived, but Jean did know that this had to be intentional. The bread was bait that every tribute needed, and currently every one of them was eyeing it hungrily. But there seemed to be something else lurking in the ruins, flattening its black back into the burnt grass to conceal itself, a form that Jean couldn't quite make out.

As Jean's hearing finally did return, he could make out the voices of the other tributes, bickering amongst each other.

"What do we do now?" one of them was asking, looking rather frantic as he watched the remaining morsel with large, watery eyes. "That's not enough to last us all one day!"

"This is the Hunger Games!" the female amongst them barked, laughing dryly. "We are the last tributes."

"Don't be daft," the third and final tribute growled. "There's still that Jean Valjean; you saw his rating and muscles, he's one to fear."

"I'm not being daft!" the second replied, her voice full of spite. "We haven't spotted him for nearly a week; doubtlessly he can survive off of the wild for another month or so—we can't. If anything, one of us can, hopefully long enough to take him down."

"Well, if any of us would be strong enough to take him down, it would be me," the last tribute snarled. "As I'm sure you're both aware."

"Oh, you want to _test_ that?" she spat in response.

"Both of you, we need to keep our heads," the other tribute said, who couldn't have been more than fourteen. It was a miracle he had survived for this long. "If we fight, nothing good will happen."

"Have you ever seen the last four tributes duel it out before?" the center woman snarled, towering over them all as the tallest. "Watched them tear each other to bits? That's what happens this late in the game, because there's only one winner, and one way out." As those words flew from her lips, she took flight with equal speed, pouncing upon the larger tribute. She held her knife aloft, her teeth bared, spitting viciously. She was truly a terror to see, and Jean could recall many killings of this game that he had seen from her. The two of them tussled onto the ground, rolling around on top of each other, neither in the lead of their crude dance of death. Both of them were matched in equal strength, but she had the clear advantage since she was the one who had started the turmoil, and therefore had a knife already out, breaths away from her opponent's neck.

This would have been an ideal time for Jean to steal the bread for his own needs, but he was still far too wary of the moving figure in the shadows to make a move in that direction. Besides, there was still the little kid. So instead, Jean stayed rooted to the spot, hidden by the undergrowth, as he watched the careers duel it out, unaware of his presence.

The woman finally sunk her blade forward, ripping the flesh from his throat, thrusting the weapon into his windpipe. For an eerie moment that couldn't even last a second, the man on the bottom flailed about, before collapsing into death. A cannon blast made it official.

"See, kid," she growled triumphantly, her eyes glowing as it surveyed her prey. She got to her feet and stepped away, her gaze unmoved. "Whoever's the toughest—and actually goes for the kill. Whoever manages that—well, they _win_." She paused for a moment, waiting for his response, before finally averting her gaze to glance around. "Kid?"

"The name's Gervais!" the little kid shouted, plunging a large sword up and into the unsuspecting back of the woman. He thrust the hilt forward even more, causing the dead woman to fall on top of her own kill. "And you don't need to be the strongest to win, you just have to do it." Sighing softly, he looked around, his eyes troubled. Gervais wasn't as dumb as the others, and could guess that the remaining tribute was probably out there, waiting—quite right, too. But seeing nothing, he padded forward, away from the bloodbath of his allies, towards the bread.

Even though Jean depended on this little boy's death, he was tempted to call out a warning, tell of the fact that there was some creature lurking in the shadow. As it was, Jean's thoughts of poor Cosette were what kept his mouth clamped tightly shut, and his eyes wide open. Was this what the Games did to a man? Caused him to hope for the fact that a little boy would get snatched up by a creature lurking in the shadows? Indeed it was, but Jean was aware of the hideousness of this fact, and perhaps that was enough to save him for humanity.

Gervais hadn't reached five feet within range of the bread before the creature lurched out. This beast was something that Jean had never clasped eyes on before now. It truly was a thing of the shadows, its form vibrating between blacks and purples, an oily mass that moved with silken speed, skittering forward faster than the grown man could run. This mass of darkness lurched forward with bared teeth. Its mouth glistened beneath layers of the waxy black, a row of glistening teeth that shown with the same vibrancy as a torch. The claws that protruded from beneath its blankets of skin emanated the same sickening light, latching forward into the boy's legs. That's all this creature was, darkness and light, combined into one horror that should have never been spun into existence. Obviously the work of the Head Gamemaker, and it sickened Jean to recall that somewhere, some sick man was sitting in front of a screen, watching his creation spin to life as it consumed little Gervais, probably filled with delight at the sight. The little boy was helpless against the beast. He attempted to grab for his sword, sticking it into the creature, but it was too fast for him, and tore into his arm, biting away at the flesh and peeling his very limb off.

Jean had seen enough. As awful as this was, he knew that this was the only chance he would have. Stealing forward, Jean dashed into the light, flying towards the bread and snatching it up with one hand before dashing off back the way he came. He didn't dare look back, let his eyes sink into the mess that would match the screams that he could hear so clearly. Gervais was a goner, taken over by the frightful being that was ripping into his flesh and devouring him into the shadows. All Jean could do was run and silently scream along with the boy. His mouth was gaping open, for he did feel the anguish of Gervais as if it were his very own, felt the weight of the small life upon his back. As much as Jean did want to argue that it was this wretched game that had devised Gervais's death, he still had possessed the power to shout out a warning, warn the little boy what lurked in wait for him. Therefore, as his feet slammed against the forest floor, running as far away as he possibly could, Jean felt the unfinished boy's life weigh heavily on his conscience. So young to die so dreadfully! Jean Valjean hadn't needed to hear a cannon's blare to know he'd won, but heard it all the same, pounding into his skull with the hidden messages that lay beneath it. _He's dead, he's dead, that brave little boy died. _And stronger yet were the memories that were interlaced within the explosion. With the sound, Jean could see Fantine's death before him, see her cold forehead lose the rest of its light, felt her warm breath fade away... _Fantine; oh, my darling Fantine, I did it! I completed the game, this wretched game that stole you away! I'm going home; I will go and save dear, sweet, innocent Cosette. She will be safe under my protection, I promise you that! _


	4. Chapter 4

Jean Valjean had a single thought in mind as he hurried through the shadowed night, still unfamiliar with the hard solidity of proper cobblestones under his feet. Rain slicked the wind and plastered his hair, cropped for the commercial aspect of his bitter victory tour, but the weather did not concern him. Likewise, he could not care less for the terror that had all right to be gripping his heart—he was free, of course, free of the damned arena and all it contained, and yet he had emerged from its confines with more ahead of him than ever. His promise to Fantine still guided his every action, and it was that oath that drew his limbs forward now, determined through the downpour, as undeterred by the resolute lash of coldness as he had been by the low advice of his mentor. He could recall Myriel's words now, pounding in his head just under the constant staccato of Fantine's last breaths, which had lodged itself in the back of his skull as permanently as his own heartbeat.

_"I know what you promised her; all of Panem does. If there were a way to help that poor girl, I would not hesitate to send you on your way. But you must understand, Jean, that it is quite simply impossible. Fantine did not win the Games, and so the Capitol will be determined that she receive no reflection of victory. Cosette must be forgotten, for any attempt to retrieve her will only put you both in greater peril." _

Yet he was willing to risk that. His promise to Fantine had been anything but empty, and so it was that he found himself here now, shivering outside of a dark shop in the outskirts of District 8, illuminated only by the flickering glow from the dusty windows. This had to be it—the Thénardiers' inn, the place that Fantine had spoken of with something close to reverence in her voice; though, he thought now, it didn't come near fitting the high expectations she'd set with her awed murmurs. She called it a hearth of salvation, a beautiful refuge of mercy and second chances; said, with tears in her eyes, how Mrs. Thénardier had accepted Cosette without question—promised to care for her, and that her husband had interjected only to _humbly, _as Fantine had phrased it, request some portion of the winnings that she was sure to return with.

Humble and respectable, however, were the last words that Jean would think to associate with the wreck that lay before him now. Part of the roof appeared to be caved in, and shattered glass from what presumably used to be wine bottles lay in fragmented piles around the battered threshold, yet neither dismal attribute did anything to lessen the sense of revelry that hung about the place. Loud voices were audible from even outside in the rushing storm, occasionally punctuated with drunken laughter, and Jean knew that this had to be the place. There were no mistakes to be made.

"Soon, dearest Fantine," he breathed softly, casting his eyes swiftly to the left and right to reassure himself that he was not being pursued. "I will have her within the hour."

He drew his coat up to his chin in a futile shield from the wet cascade, then stepped forwards to the door, extending a hand and rapping firmly against the soaked wood. The resulting pause stretched on far too long for his comfort, and he found himself gritting his teeth, unable to shake the irrational sensation of unwelcome eyes on his back. Of very particular eyes, in fact, a distinctly penetrating blue-grey stare that he couldn't help but feel constantly in the hold of.

The face that clung to his mind more vividly than any of the rest, in his nightmares as well as his waking hours, was that of the Head Gamemaker, the one who was ultimately responsible for everything that he and Fantine and all the rest had been so cruelly forced through. He had only seen Javert's face once, during the broadcast of a previous round of the Games in his younger years, but it was an image that had stuck with him all this time. Javert had had a peculiar air about him, even through the shivering mess of the poor television screen in Jean's old home, and though virtual ages had passed, he found himself unable to forget the sharpness of the Gamemaker's scowl, the immaculate cut of his silvered beard. He was eerie in his resistance to Capitol trends, his face rough-hewn and naturally affected where his companions slicked theirs in all matter of dye and plastic and makeup. The fact that he was genuine made him wild, wolfish, and it so it was his face above all others that lingered at the back of Jean's thoughts now, as he stood shivering and cursing outside of the Thénardiers' inn—as absurd as the fear may seem, he couldn't shake the feeling that Javert would be the one to pursue him. If President Bonaparte were to send anyone after him, if Myriel could not deter such attempts, then the Head Gamemaker, inexplicably and yet undoubtedly, would be the one given the task. The fact that the Games were over changed nothing—Jean was still Javert's task, his responsibility, and, suffocated by unwelcome victory as he was, Jean doubted that such would ever change.

His thoughts, thick and shuddering with such rampant paranoia, were extinguished like a candle flame at the noise of a creak behind him.

He turned, eyes wide, and his gaze raked the woods clustered behind him in desperate seeking of whatever had stirred. It took several seconds for him to realize that the source of the disturbance was too miniscule to be captured in his initial stare—in fact, it lay below his eye level, so that he had to crane his neck slightly to get a proper look.

It was a girl standing before him—a horribly skinny girl, too young for the Games and yet battered fit to have been in them, wreathed in the soaking clasp of the storm to the point where it seemed a wonder she wasn't blown away in the billowing fury. Matted blonde hair hung about her trembling shoulders, and a heavy iron bucket dangled from her arms, sloshing over the top with glacial water. Her form was sheathed only by a scrappy, worn dress, and her features, perhaps naturally cherubic but roughened by starvation, were drawn into an expression of pure childish fright.

"Don't be afraid," Jean assured her swiftly, sinking to his knees and offering his arms in a gesture of absolute gentleness. Though the child's features were too young to hold any resemblance to the woman whom he achingly suspected to be her mother, he had little doubt as to who this could be. The sight of her in such clear distress sunk into his stomach like a boulder, but he didn't let it show on the surface, instead opting to send a gentle smile in her direction. "Would I be right in assuming you to be little Cosette?"

"That is my name," she allowed, but said no more. Her elbows were beginning to tremble with the effort of holding up her gargantuan bucket, and, without thinking, Jean reached out, retrieved her load in his own lithely muscled arms. She gave it up immediately, and the careful veil of caution in her wide grey eyes parted, allowing for delight in its stead. For the first time, her pale lips curled into a tentative smile, and Jean was just on the point of returning it when a crash sounded from behind him.

"Cosette!" a voice sounded—loud, rough, and almost piercing despite its uncomfortably feminine lowness. "Aren't you back yet, girl? Get in here, there's a man who's said to be coming for your sorry little self—"

The words fell away into nothing as Jean straightened and turned, his brows and mouth whittled into careful severity. He found himself glaring at a tall, heavyset woman, plain-faced and thick-lipped. Her clothes were worn and her countenance unremarkable, save for the brilliantly red curls that hung around her face and tumbled down her broad shoulders, far from graceful, giving the distinct impression that her very skull was aflame despite the rain that still gushed about them. Her already narrow eyes tightened into near-nonexistence as she regarded Jean, and she half-stepped back into the inn, out of which spilt a pool of buttery light and snatches of raucous verbal debauchery.

"I believe that would be me you're thinking of, ma'am," he confirmed, making sure to balance his attitude between solemn and amiable. He didn't want to scare her—it would be far too easy to get himself reported, and he was already walking a thin line; he didn't want the additional curse of Peacekeepers at his heel. "I've come to retrieve Cosette." To emphasize his earnestness, he stepped back closer to the child he spoke of, and was rewarded with the tentative brush of her shoulders against his legs.

"Jean Valjean," she sneered. "We heard 'bout you. They said you were after us—got a call from the Capitol itself, saying not to give Cosette to any teenage scrap who stopped by."

_Damn it. _So the accursed Capitol had been working ahead of him, operating deviously behind the scenes even as they advertised his heroism to the crowds. He may be praised before the public for his selfless actions, but the Capitol had no room for a genuine savior, not in their perfectly moderated nation.

"Then, pray, find it within whatever heart you have to surrender her regardless," Jean implored. "She is young, and orphaned—Fantine desired that I care for her, and so I consider it my duty. I assure you I am more than capable of recompense for your... surrender; I am a victor now." The words rang empty. Victory, surely, lost its definition when laden with such a detestable price as his friend's demise. "Name a price, and I will deliver it."

"Any price?" she repeated warily, her dark eyes glistening with undisguised greed that Jean couldn't help but grimace at. Her voice softened into a putrid sweetness, one which delivered the uncomfortable sensation that his ears were gagging. "It would have to be quite high, of course, to soothe the pain of such a loss. Cosette has grown most dear to us, sir, and it would be almost beyond us to turn her over to such an infamous head as that of Jean Valjean."

As if the name had summoned him, a man appeared almost instantly at her shoulder—or, more accurately, at her armpit, dwarfed as he was by the heavy stature beside him. He was much smaller, skinny as a rat and with a face that beckoned a similar comparison. Worn but bright-colored fabrics hung from his form, and everything about him, next to his strikingly dumpy wife, conveyed exquisite failure, rubbish swathed in rotted luxury. The two of them, surely the Thénardiers whom Fantine had spoken of, did little to stand up to her comparisons, he thought with an internal cringe. These were disgusting people, not only in their figures but in their expressions, sneering and cold with every movement.

"Jean Valjean!" Mr. Thénardier repeated, and his thin lips curled into a grin so very foxlike that Jean half-expected to make out a tail lashing behind his scrawny legs. "The very one we've been warned about."

"I can reassure you, sir, that any _warnings _are ridiculous and unfounded." Quite suddenly, Jean felt the whisper of a touch at his wrist, and glanced down to see that little Cosette had wrapped his hand in her own icy fingers, clinging instinctively to the him, clearly frightened by Thénardier's presence. With a strange glow trembling at the inside of his ribs, he returned the gesture, gripping her firmly. "I come to take Cosette away, since Fantine is unable to. I guarantee," he continued, stepping closer so that less rain separated them, "that I pose no threat."

"Oh, but it is cold," Thénardier drawled carefully, lifting his chin and tilting his eyebrows. "Far too cold for such discussions here. By all means, come inside—business is best done by the comfort of a fire, wouldn't you say?"

Jean tilted his head to get a proper view around the wordlessly staring Mrs. Thénardier's shoulder, and was rewarded by only a brief glimpse of the riotous festivities within. Every surface seemed lit with an abundance of half-melted candles, reflected glaringly on the array of bright fabrics cloaking the drinkers within. It was disgustingly dirty, stained about with sticky wine puddles and murkier blotches that he attempted not to imagine the sources of. The overall impression was one of agelessness; this scene would have been perfectly in place hundreds of years ago, if not for the anachronistic presence of a wide television over one rutted wall, currently dark but clearly for the purpose of viewing the Games that had only just ceased.

It was a habitat that, surely, was only suitable for the hopelessly inebriate; not in any case the sort of place to house a young girl. Fantine must not have seen the interior of the hell that she was condemning her poor daughter to, Jean thought with a heavy twinge of resentment, for no desperation could possibly drive her to deposit Cosette into such inevitable misery.

"Most certainly not," he decided grimly. "On the contrary—"

_"Valjean!"_

The shout was deafening, and he felt the blood in his veins crystallize, suddenly permeated by a much more definite chill than anything that the fierce rain could dream of bringing on. His heart snapped into rapidity, breath hitching against his skull, reminding him of where he was and what was happening. He was being pursued, and had not a second to spare.

The Thénardiers' stares flickered identically to the side, scoping out the dark streets winding away from the house, the clear source of the call. Cosette squeezed harder on his hand, and he made sure to return it in what he hoped to be a reassuring way, turning back to the Thénardiers with more urgency than ever pulsing through him.

"This girl is mine now. I made a promise to her mother; give me no arguments, for nothing you have to say will convince me to relinquish her. Listen, though—you must not tell Javert, or anyone else who comes this way to seek her out. Not a word. She disappeared, do you understand? Disappeared without a trace."

"It would be easier to understand," Thénardier mused, with a supportive chuckle from his wife, "if only we received that payment which darling Fantine spoke of—it is ever so hard to support such a precious child, to keep her bright little spirit glowing… perhaps even the slightest delivery of her debt would blind us to wherever you may choose to venture…"

"Damn it," Jean spat, pulling Cosette in yet closer, "have you no hearts? Never mind, though, never mind—" Sickened by his own actions and chained by his own promises, he dipped a swift hand into his coat pocket, fingers slipping with haste, and removed a tangled wad of bills that he didn't bother to count, crushing them in his disgusted grip before casting them onto the damp cobblestones before him. Thénardier fell to his knees like a pigeon after feed, grasping the money up, and his wife was eager to lean in as he rose again, their hands working like a single mechanism to pull apart and sort the payment.

There distraction was all Jean needed to depart. "Come, Cosette," he ordered, but didn't wait for her to join him—instead, he scooped her immediately into his arms, and then his legs were on fire as he ripped away from the treacherous pool of light surrounding the inn, darted instead towards the relative refuge of the woods meters away—the very dark forest that poor Cosette had emerged from with her bucket, which now lay on the stones meters away, its contents surging over to join the streams of rainwater haunting the ground.

He did not know whose voice had sounded—whether it was Javert or some less significant Peacekeeper. He was, however, positive that they had found out he was here, discovered his intents. And though they hadn't expressly forbidden such actions, he trusted Myriel's words enough to be sure that it would be a curse to be caught here. The Capitol would gloss it over for the public, naturally, but he and Cosette would both surely suffer.

No, he couldn't let them catch him here. But if he could get back, if he could return to Myriel, it would surely work out from there. They could find a way to shelter Cosette, a story to make up for the Capitol. They had to.

"I will care for you," he murmured into her tangled locks as he made his way further and further into the dark woods. It was oddly peaceful under the shelter of their thick, knotted branches, though the muffled silence only left more room for the thrumming roar of adrenaline against his eardrums. He barely knew his way, and was moving blindly in his frantic state, but he had gotten here from the confined of his own District, and so surely would be able to return. "As I promised your mother."

There was an odd motivation glowing inside of him as he plowed on, never hesitating to lower her drenched little figure—something gentle, tentative, and something most definitely due to the shivering weight grasped within his arms. Cosette was fragile, ruined, and yet she was beautiful. The tenderness lodging in his chest at her very touch was something profound, as honeyed and yet powerful as if she were his own child, and he knew without a doubt that this was a bond that would last, through whatever challenges the years may strike before them.


	5. Chapter 5

**[[ the 32nd hunger games ]]**

_Eight years have passed after Jean Valjean succeeded in winning the Hunger Games, and tensions have been rising in the twelve districts surrounding Panem. Figures have begun to come into the light of freedom, and as the 32nd Hunger Games draw nearer, the world holds its breath awaiting the arrival of the uprising that seems to be waiting around the next dark corner._

_The victor Jean Valjean has been a figurehead in the hopes of the people without meaning to be, the man who won the Games and looks over the daughter of the fallen. But as this little girl ages, everyone holds their breath as her name is entered for the reaping once more._

**xxx**

_"Cosette Valjean." The voice rings out from a complete stranger with ghostly pale skin, an acid green smile glistening across their features, their hair sticking up in multi-colored spikes. The representative of the Capitol._

_"No!" Cosette screeches, stepping back, the other strangers glowering at her from where they surround her small form. "But I don't live here! I'm not from this district!" The crowd continues to close in around her, their daunting faces swirling together in one mass. _

_"Cosette!" the representative calls through the crowd. "Step forward, Miss Valjean!"_

_The crowd becomes a mob of movement, forcing Cosette forwards, towards the pedestal. Here she is, on TV, in front of everyone around the world. But she doesn't belong here at all, this isn't her home, isn't her district. This can't be happening. It's without sensation that she stumbles forward in front of everybody, without thinking that she looks up into the cold face of the woman from the Capitol. With all this numbness, Cosette swallows her death. She has been chosen._

Cosette wakes up in a panic, sweat trickling down her face. It's the same dream, the same nightmare she's had for the last few years the night before the reaping. Sometimes she gets to the actual Games, other times the crowd becomes a black hole that gobbles her up. Now she presses her eyes tightly shut, curling herself into a tighter ball as she shivers from head to foot. It's not from the cold, for there are no drafts in this victor's mansion that she lives in with her adopted father; instead, she shakes with fear. This is not her time having her name put in the competition, but she fears it even more viciously now, knowing that the odds are only stacking themselves more highly against her. She can't go back to sleep, for she doesn't want to deal with the dream again. So, instead, she rises to her feet. Jean never even tries to sleep this night, so Cosette is sure that they could keep each other company in this nightmare. She doesn't want to spend the night alone, especially since it might be the last night for a while. No, but she doesn't want to think about that, either.

Cosette tiptoes from her room, her satin pajamas clenched between her fingertips as they fall just past her wrists. Her room is on the second floor, and she suspects that her papa is still on the lower level, so it's with this in mind that she walks down the charming hallway, to the end where the stairs exist. She then pauses, her hands gently thumbing the edge of the banister, tracing over the embellishments she has memorized through touch. The dreams still feels as real as the world around her, and these small gestures are what help her to remember that what lurks around her is reality and she hasn't been chosen for the Games, or at least she hasn't been yet. During this pause, she realizes that there are voices coming from downstairs. Jean's low murmur is amongst them, but there are also the sounds of strangers. Jean never has guests over at their house, so these new voices at such a frightening hour cause Cosette to step forwards with tentative curiosity. She glides down the stairway without a noise, as though she could fly. It's because of this that Jean still hasn't realized Cosette's awake, so she manages to creep to the edge of the room, where he's positioned in front of a large screen with faces on it. This screen is where the voices are coming from, some other people apparently talking through it to Jean.

"I promise you this is an unwise choice of action," Jean is saying, his hands clasped together before him. "Once you're in the Games, the Gamemakers will have complete control over your ability to stay alive. You may have an audience, but not for long, and you'll be able to do nearly nothing."

"You underestimate us, my friend," one of the men on the screen replies, glowering at Jean from underneath a large head of golden hair. "There is much we can do in the Games, and this is the only way the Capitol won't force the world to ignore it is if we show them live."

"And you realize that if things don't go to plan, you will have no surviving members outside the Games; you will all die with your goals," Papa informs them all, forlornly, and Cosette is surprised by how sadly and hopelessly he speaks. Never before has she heard him talk in such a way, unless she counts the times in which he mentioned her mother.

"One of us will survive," another man promises. Cosette peeked over to notice that there were four faces in all, each one of them a young man. "For they need their precious victor as always. Besides, if things _do_ go even remotely to plan, others will see us stand tall and join in the battle for freedom."

"They will also see how terribly you fell," Jean reminds them all, rubbing his temples.

"We realize the consequences, obviously," a quieter voice of the four voices reminds. "We're beyond that point of planning; there's hardly any going back now. There are others we've contacted who are for the cause that were too risky to connect. What we need to discuss isn't how suicidal our plans are, but instead if we're all aware and willing to do our parts. Keep in mind any of us could get cut off at any moment—this isn't as secure of a line as I'm comfortable with. We know you have no confidence in our plan, but what we need to know is if you're with us."

"As I promised, I will do whatever is in my power to assist you," Jean responds immediately. "I just could never see anything good coming from these games. But if you are all set on this task, I will do all I can to spread your cause amongst the other tributes, as initially planned." How strange this is to Cosette. She has never heard her papa speak of the Games so freely. He does seem very tight-lipped now, but he speaks of them through the eyes of the revolutionaries. Cosette isn't blind or deaf, and has heard of the unsettlement of the people. As it seems to her, that's what her papa's talking about now with these men. She duly notices that no names are being mentioned, which is probably for the best if anyone is listening on. But what they speak of is the strangest she's heard yet, revolting against the very Games themselves. Jean is against it, that much is clear, but the idea seems like common sense to Cosette. It will be televised, and there will be certain advantages of the lawless land. Cosette continues to listen with bated breath.

"Good; we appreciate your help, citizen," the first man chimes. "Tomorrow is the reaping—we'll volunteer if we aren't chosen. And then it begins."

"And then it begins," Jean echoes, sighing deeply. "You do realize that once you're at the Capitol, none of you will be able to speak freely. In almost every location you are being watched by people and cameras. There is only one place that I can think of that is free from the watchful eye: the balcony atop the building where you will be housed before the Games commence. We've discussed this in the past."

"Yes, that will be where we have to meet," the final person speaks up. "With those who may join us once the Game starts. We need some sort of sign, to silently communicate we're one large group."

"I have that covered," the second man assures the last. "Pins; they will be allowed into the game if people welcome them as their only token to wear in the arena."

"That is good," Jean praises, his voice still aching with weariness. "Just keep them hidden enough from the Capitol people. It would do well to make yourselves look like Careers—no offense meant by the term. Many of you are from the higher Districts, and a large group banded together like this will make it seem like you're the common group of puppets of the Capitol. It would be best for you to fit into this stereotype until you're in the Games."

"That would be wise," the second man agrees, nodding readily. "There is always a group like this, and most commonly from the Districts you come from, which will suit us well." He gestures to the blonde man at these words.

"Fine," the blonde man rationalizes with a swift nod. "There's also the matter of recruiting. I doubt we can get everyone to agree to join us before the Game starts, but we should try. As said before, we must be subtle."

"Even more than subtle. Your motions must be invisible," Jean corrects the man on the other side of the screen. He suddenly turns from the screen, towards Cosette, and freezes at the sight of her. He doesn't say a word to her at first, but instead turns back to the screen. "I must leave; see you all at the Capitol." With those words, he turns off the device and looks back towards Cosette. "It's not good to eavesdrop, Cosette. How come you are not asleep?"

"I'm sorry, Papa," she whispers, moving to climb towards him and into his lap, despite his harsh tone. "I had the nightmare again—same as last year."

"Ah," Jean responds, his voice softening. "I'm sorry, my dear."

"Do I really have to leave your side so early tomorrow morning?" Cosette asks, and Jean can hear in her voice that she's trying not to whine, but she's so desperately frightened that it slips out anyway. She positions her head on his shoulder, her long legs tucked up into his hip as she had always managed as a wee child, but was stretching everything by continuing to do so at the ripe age of fifteen.

"I'm afraid so," Jean murmurs in response, his hand reaching out to softly stroke her hair. "It's just like every year. They put your name in for the District you were born in, as a way to separate us."

"Because they're mad at you for bringing me here?" she whispers, already knowing the answer.

"Exactly," he responds, nodding. "But there are thousands of tickets in that bowl, and only two of them that are for you. Have faith, Cosette; all will be well."

"Those men are going to revolt in the Games, aren't they?" Cosette questions, another thing she knows the answer to.

"Yes, a very dangerous thing," Jean says gravely, letting loose another deep sigh. "They will be fortunate if they leave more than the faintest trace of a memory. Cosette, listen to me. No matter what happens, do not get mixed up in those struggles." He ends the sentence privately, in his head, for they are words he dare not speak. _Because Fantine died with the single wish that I keep you safe from this horrendous world, and I cannot do that if you are trying to save it from its own destructiveness. _

"I promise, Papa," Cosette nods, burying her head further into his shoulder to stifle her yawns. "I doubt I'll even get the chance to. Not unless I get chosen..."

"Which is highly unlikely on its own," Jean reassures her, moving his hand down to rhythmically pat her back. "You will be safe from that."

They sit there for a long moment in silence. There are no words that can truly comfort their shared fears, for words spill out in lies and those actions that cannot be promised in this case. But even just the sound of the other's breathing, their touch and company, is a slight comfort on its own. It means that they are still there, still alive, and, for the moment, safe together.

"You need your rest, Cosette," Jean finally speaks into the silent air, his eyes frozen upon a time piece that sits on their mantle. "We both do. Tomorrow is a long day, and we will both need our sleep. I will wake you when the dawn arrives, and you can start off to District 8 in the hovercraft that will come for you. Once you return afterwards, I will be gone to mentor for this year. The neighbor will be here like usual, and will take care of you as she normally does. No matter what happens in the Games, I urge you not to worry. Yes, there is going to be a revolt, but I have little hope for their plan, so we must bear with it."

"Papa?" Cosette squeaks, not moving from her position on top of her father. "I can't go back to sleep—please don't make me. If I fall back asleep, the dream will come again... I don't want to relive that nightmare."

"It is only a dream," Jean promises, rising with the dainty form of Cosette caressed in his arms. "I will sit beside you and sing you to sleep. I'm sorry, but you must try—rest is important."

"Okay." Cosette sighs, unable to see a different way out of this. She is so _tired_. Perhaps if he stays by her, it will frighten away the nightmares and she may be able to sleep in peace. "Just don't leave me until morning?"

"Promise," Jean assures her, tears forming in the edge of his vision. Cosette doesn't see them and he doesn't let her—she had no need to know how he fears for her life; it will only cause her to panic farther. With Cosette still in his arms, he ascends the stairs back up into her room. He gently lays her back into the bed with the warm, fluffy covers that she has. How lush of a life she has lived, with the advantage of a parent who could give her more than enough to eat and a properly furnished house; hardly anyone in the District has that. How it would break her to be cast into the Games. How Jean fears this possibility with every fiber of his being, every beat of his heart. Cosette, the lark, her feathers fragile against the raging currents of this world. Jean _promised_ Fantine that he would protect Cosette from the harshness, and he does try so desperately, but a lottery is one thing he cannot control. His eyes are locked on her tiny figure that fumbles around in the blankets in effort to get comfortable. "What song would you like?'

"Sing me the meadow one," she requests, her eyes already half-closed as she gazes up at him, still managing to focus.

"Alright," Jean replies softly, tucking the blanket in around her shoulders and beneath her chin. He lets his voice rise within him, quietly exiting his mouth as it lulls her to sleep. "Deep in the meadow, under a willow, a bed of grass, a soft green pillow..." For all he can do for her is hope.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun beats without mercy upon those gathered in the town square, its bronzed caress gladly nudging the strong forms mulling below it into flattering accentuation. The talk rushing about is excited, babbling, and punctuated with the occasional laugh; it's very different here than it would be in any of the poorer Districts, surely. While they gather with their heads down and their eyes full, the youth of District 1 are proud and eager, only praying that they might be lucky enough to get their name drawn for the honor of participation in the Hunger Games. These people have spent their lives hoping and training, and it's the last year for some of them; those are the ones who stand with a more focused ferocity in their wide eyes, perhaps exchanging the occasional joke or prod, but with their mood generally somber as they gaze on at the glittering stage before them.

The reaping hasn't officially started, and so the residents of the District mull about without aim, gathering in small flocks that only vaguely line up to the age groups through which they're meant to be organized. Some are hard-faced, scowling towards the cameras in an attempt to impress the audience that they haven't yet been exposed to, while others take advantage of these last free minutes to converse lightly with their friends and family. There is, notably, an absence of any sort of negative emotion. The only ones who show even a hint of tears are the parents and relatives of those pooled for the reaping, and their crying is through smiles, clearly borne out of pride rather than fear.

They have been raised to believe that there is no higher glorification than the selection of their name to be pitted in a hopeless, impossible fight to the death against other, probably weaker teenagers. For them, there is no other way about life. This way has always been the norm, and chances are that it will never change.

One among their undulating ranks thinks differently. A single mind to contradict the masses, a lone defier in the face of absolute dominating cruelty.

He stands a bit apart from the rest, surveying them with a faint scowl that could almost be called prissy, had it perhaps a bit less strength behind it. Strength is very vibrant in everything about him, conveyed in the set of his fine lips and the tilt of his carven chin, radiating from the lean, muscular form clear beneath simple clothing; unlike the rest of his peers, he's dressed far from fancily. The simplistic outfitting does little to play down his appearance, though—on the contrary, the intent beauty of his face and figure is only emphasized through the dullness of his attire. For beautiful he is, in a most striking way; one that draws the attention of several girls across the square, giggling and shooting him the occasional look, which he calmly chooses to ignore. Everything about him is bright and golden, pure in a way that's intimidating, frightening in its absolute undimmed strength. He stands perfectly tall, as though he considers himself superior to those around him, and the arrogant posture draws the attention of several others. He is perhaps seventeen, on the very edge of eligibility, but it couldn't be clearer that he does not intend this final year to go to waste.

The young man is clearly bored with the doings around and about him, but satisfaction closes over his stony face as a pulse of sound travels through the air, traceable back to the Capitol representative as she intently taps at the microphone stationed before her. She is repulsively extravagant, with iced orange hair piled high above her head like an angular tower, gem-encrusted magenta lashes clashing with the vibrant shade of the wig and the unnaturally copper tint of her skin. Her beam is grotesque, but nonetheless rewards with a roar of enthusiasm as she clears her throat into the microphone, drawing the attention of the fervent crowd towards her stage.

She stands in the center, waving one taloned hand, the other positioned on her hip. To either side stand several far less glitzy forms, still powerfully eye-drawing but fading into almost nothing next to her vibrancy. They are five or six in total, varying in age and gender but united in the sense that every one of them is powerful. Most are strongly built, and almost all latticed with some pattern of scars, which they proudly display to the audience before them in a manner that ranges from casual to obtuse. One, perhaps, is distinct from the rest—though not by standing out more than them. Contradictorily, he is unsettling in his subtlety, and perhaps his very presence cannot be observed with only a quick glance. Something about him seems to cling to the shadows, regardless of the fact that he very nearly assumes the chief frontal position. His head is tilted downwards, the brim of a wide, old-fashioned hat casting his eerily pale skin into stark shadows, and his stance is wary, as though he's concealing a weapon of his own, ready to unleash it at the slightest hint of a violent disturbance in the crowd over which he presides.

It is to this slender shade that the blonde boy's eyes are drawn, and for a moment, though the older man's stare is not detectable, he is victim to the creeping sensation that their eyes have met, that the other has targeted him among the throngs and that they are both regarding and evaluating each other simultaneously. He knows who this is—a former victor, like the rest of the brutes who flaunt from the stage, and the most recent one. This echo of a man will be training whichever boy is selected for the Games, and the blonde teenager who regards him so aggressively now has no doubt that he will be the one to fill that space. Unlike the other citizens pining for the chance to die, he has a purpose, an intent, and he refuses to let their foolish playfulness interfere.

The Capitol escort clears her throat again, and a more definite hush presses in on the wide town square as the last few teenagers scamper to their roped-in age sectors. The sun seems to sharpen in the silence, painting a starker image as eagerness clasps the features of all those awaiting.

"Now, now, now, everyone, I know we're _very _excited!" she begins, her teeth shining like thirty diamond beacons. The result is a resounding thunder of applause and enthusiastic shouting, which she makes no move to pause, but instead allows to run its course before it dies down into a murmur. "Very excited," the Capitol woman repeats, "but I'm afraid it's not _quite _time for us to choose the lucky names yet!" She affixes her lips into a caricatured pout, and the crowd groans in accordance. "Don't worry, soon enough, soon enough! Though let me first present, with all enthusiasm, your District's beloved mayor!"

The clapping this time is muted in comparison; no one is particularly enthused over the inevitably wandering and tedious speech that their mayor is sure to provide. It's necessary, apparently required, but that doesn't detract from its dullness in the least, and the blonde boy finds himself clenching his teeth in frustrated impatience as the District's balding representative takes center stage and starts in on his endless words. They fall on uninterested ears, recounting the history of Panem and its Districts as is done every year, but even the pressing boredom can't properly quell the excitement humming within the potential tributes. Glances are still swiftly exchanged among them, heightening in eagerness as the time draws on and the decision creeps nearer.

_One boy and one girl, _the mayor's voice echoes, and the blonde's eyes widen infinitesimally. He is on the edge of his calmness, an instant away from whatever powerful form his own anticipation may realize itself in, and tension rolls off of him in waves as he swipes his tongue swiftly over his lower lip, shoulders heaving with discomposure that can't quite be softened by his stoic attitude.

The mayor reaches the end of his speech, launching into the names of the District's previous victors, each of which receives a much more powerful flood of invigorated cheering than any part of his dry rant did. The victors themselves, now seated in a number of chairs meant to express some sense of actual order, each grin in acknowledgement as their own name is called out. The darkest one, however, the one who had previously captivated the blonde so entirely, remains silent, almost brooding as his is bellowed. "Claquesous," the mayor declares him, an odd title for an appropriately odd person, and after says nothing more.

The blonde boy is still intent on the enigma of Claquesous, the only one of those before him whose game he is old enough to remember properly, but the rest of the crowd is eager to move on. And so the mayor takes his leave, nodding briefly before retreating to the back of the stage, replaced soon by the acidly hued figure of the Capitol escort. The blonde boy narrows his eyes from the back of the crowd—he is rather sure that her hair was orange mere minutes ago, yet it now seems to have receded into a lemon yellow, rather as if its candy-floss mass is trekking steadily through the rainbow. He supposes, dismissively, that it wouldn't be the strangest thing the Capitol has produced yet, and so renders it under his attention, electing instead to focus on the words emerging from her painted mouth.

"Now, who's ready for the fun part?" she questions, then immediately paws at the air as a swell of sonic response builds through the square. "Rhetorical, rhetorical," she chuckles, and it couldn't be clearer that, beneath her frivolity, she finds the District's incessant enthusiasm quite taxing indeed. Regardless, she adjusts her curls, which are now sinking into an electric green tone, and takes a small step closer to the large glass ball positioned before her.

"Alright, let's see what the fates have in stock!" she squeaks. The sound is grating, and she performs an irritating little skip-hop to reach the hollow crystal container properly. Her hand darts into it like an exotic fish and flips rapidly through the white slips gathered there, whisking about in a movement that's entirely more teasing and extravagant than necessary. The blonde boy keeps breathing in as steady a manner as possible. These are the girls. This is not the part that matters.

At long last, the slip is chosen and withdrawn, unfolded meticulously between the escort's overlong fingernails. Her voice rings through perfect silence as she reads the name, and the result is a shriek of defiance from a burly eighteen-year-old, her dark eyes sharpening in aggravated disbelief. It is, the blonde reflects, equally punishing for one's name to be called here as it is in the poorer Districts. There, it damns them to death; here, to life, for never once in all thirty-two years of the Games has there been an incident when the drawn name and the final tribute match up. Volunteers always interfere.

The pattern is predictable, and does not fail now. The ranks stiffen as the fuming brunette makes her way up the aisle, shoving aside all of those in her way, and whips around at the front of the stage to glare at those before her. The escort repeats her name, and it falls past the blonde boy's ears, dismissible in its unimportance. Then she's asking for volunteers, and the whole place is thrown into tumult, pressing in his eardrums to the point where a sharp pain is drawn. He scowls but makes no noise of his own, waiting with no semblance of patience as the complicated proceedings take place. There will not, he reflects, be any of this nonsense when it's the males' turn. His planning has made that clear.

Eventually, a volunteer tribute is selected, and the brunette is pulled away from the stage to make room for another, younger one. She is around sixteen, he estimates, and slender in figure, with long gingery hair braided nearly to her waist and a sharp-featured face pulled now into a feline grin. Her name also shudders unnoticeably past him, and he makes little effort to evaluate her. She looks strong enough, but she is not the true enemy, and therefore he has no reason to size her up in the way that the other male volunteers surely are. A few let out teasing wolf-whistles, which he only finds aggravating; she is attractive, he can suppose, but surely it is not of matter now.

Heartbeats later, the escort has calmed the crowd, and then she's at the second ball, this one on the other side of the stage. Tension fills the air once more, this time concentrated more on the area of the boys, and his heart jumps into a swift race against nothing as her hand emerges with no lack of ado from the pile of white name slips, her lips frame the next name and a cheer shoots from those gathered, mingled with a single, practically inaudible groan of resentment.

He closes his eyes for a fragment of a second. It's time.

The boy making his way into the empty aisle now is fair-skinned but dark-haired, young, his features handsomely and distinctly carved. Easily categorized as the pretty-boy type, though the blonde lets that slip below his notice, occupied by much greater matters as he is. He has only instants, and those instants are what he must act on, so he seizes them without hesitation.

A surprised stirring moves through those around him as he shoves his own way into the aisle, making sure to keep his eyes bright and his chin high. They know that it wasn't his name that was called, and that it's too early for volunteers. He doesn't care. His very purpose is to defy all the structures of normality, and the stronger a first impression he can give, the better.

He catches the thin arm of the boy whose name has been called halfway through the podium, twisting it and staring into the wide, slightly irritated pale blue eyes across from him. "Go back," he commands lowly, knowing that every person in the wide town square is staring at him, and that the cameras are swiveling to get a proper shot, to frame his intent face.

"Shove off," the chosen boy spits in response, attempting to jerk away. The blonde doesn't let him go, however; instead, he tightens his grip until pain is clear in the tension of the other's pale face, a hiss emerging from his thin lips at the sharp grasp.

"Go back," he repeats. "You are not going to the Games. You've known that since the second your name was called. Now rejoin the others of your age, before you proceed to embarrass both of us far more than is necessary."

The pause feels infinite, though surely it can't truly last for more than a breath and a half. The crystal blue eyes flicker down and then up, obstinacy clearing to make way for what can almost be called nervous respect. Then, without a nod or any sign of assent other than the action itself, the dark-haired boy steps away, and the blonde willingly releases him, straightening as he feels the attention of the masses sift over until it's fixated solely on him.

He keeps his head high and ascends to the stage with a firm step. The red-haired girl is watching him with a sly grin, her braid twirled around her fingertips. The few planes of Claquesous's face that he can make out resemble an expression of careful intrigue, and the Capitol escort appears simply scandalized, the slip with the dark-haired boy's name still clutched in one hand.

"We haven't yet asked for volunteers," she begins uncertainly.

"I'm not fond of waiting," he responds, and a couple of the victors chuckle appreciatively. He doesn't allow anything near a smile to touch his own features.

"Well—well, then, it would appear we have a volunteer!" the escort exclaims, turning into the microphone. A roar of defiance rises from the assembled boys, furious at their chance having been ripped away from them, but the rest of the crowd is wild with eagerness. The knowledge of the hundreds of cameras recording his face is the only thing that keeps him from smirking; it would appear that he's made the perfect first impression.

"Yes, yes, I know it's unusual, but strangeness is what makes the Games so exciting, isn't it?" the escort continues. It's clear that she's still trying to arrange her own thoughts, demonstrated by her reaching up once more to adjust the mass of curls that is now being stained gradually but surely turquoise. Up close, the fibers look plastic, even faker than they appeared from a distance. "Now, let's all calm down and listen to what this young man has to say—what's your name, sweet?" She extends the microphone, an encouraging smile in place.

He hears his own voice echoed across the town square, striking itself powerfully into the silence.

"Enjolras."

She titters, and it's the only sound for what must be miles. "And what about your last name, Enjolras?"

"It is my last name." Before she can protest, he goes on, keeping his tone impeccably measured, ensuring that it doesn't shake even a hair's breadth. "A brief glance at the District records will be enough to show you that no others of eligible age share my surname. My identity isn't that much of a challenge for you, I should hope."

A few of those audience members who aren't still fuming allow tentative laughs, but the rest are wordless, enamored by his dark confidence.

He can feel Claquesous watching him as the escort attempts to push his seriousness into a joke. Her voice tunes entirely out of his perception, and Enjolras turns to face the people, his shoulders proudly thrown back. Every one of them, shrunken now by his position high above them, is watching, breath held and faces blank in astounded bemusement.

He has captivated them. And, watching their wide eyes and parted lips, he feels a surge of faith blaze through him. This is perfect. These people are sorely starved of abnormality, and he has provided it without flaw.

At this rate, they are well on the way to the revolution that their country so desperately thirsts for.


	7. Chapter 7

Marius doesn't sleep much the night before the reaping happens, but that's a usual occurrence for him. The possibility of being entered into the Hunger Games isn't something that's relaxing in the least. That's why he's sitting up in bed, staring out the window in his room. He's lucky; his grandfather that he lives with is a Peacekeeper, and therefore the house that they live in is decent, especially considering they're in District 8. However, none of this can comfort Marius as he sits up in bed, wide awake with the anxiety of the oncoming day.

His gaze is locked on the window, because there is one comfort that has come during each and every year during the reaping, one that will come from the sky. It's sort of a strange obsession, that could even go as far as to be embarrassing, so he keeps it to himself, and pretends that it's only fear that sets his mind and stomach askew on the night beforehand. Really, it's more the girl who comes for the reaping. Marius has never understood why she comes; she's obviously from another district, and has little to do with his world here. And yet she's still brought here on a hovercraft for this barbaric event that everyone pretends is so ordinary and necessary for survival. Marius has only been able to discover one thing about her, and that is that her name is Ursula, which he learned from finding a handkerchief she had dropped while departing at one point, embroidered with the lettering _U. F. _Because of this, Marius realized that her name obviously had to be Ursula. It is the silliest thing, how little he really knew about her, and yet she has still managed to so completely cast him under her spell without knowing that the poor nerd existed. It's her stunning beauty that manages such a thing, with her golden locks flowing beneath the bonnet she generally wore to this gathering. She has a kind gaze, full of softness and generosity, lurking above her rosy cheeks. All the clothing Marius has seen her wear was grand and rich enough that he can guess that she is either from one of the wealthier districts, like one or two, or perhaps that she is under the protection of a Peacekeeper as he is himself.

Finally, he sees the hovercraft land, a few blocks from his house in the center of town, and Ursula exits, followed by a few Peacekeepers. The small clump of people goes silently from the house, to the building to the left, which Marius knows as the Mayor's home. This is where she generally stays, as he has seen her enter and exit this building in past years.

As Marius sits there in bed, he can't help but wonder if he'll actually be able to muster up the courage to talk to this young lady. He spends the rest of the time pondering over what he will say to her if he does have the chance, before eventually the sun rises, and the voice of his grandfather can be heard beckoning him out of bed.

"Marius!" Grandfather shouts, stirring the young man from his daydream.

Marius stands from his bed, leaning against the post of his resting place as he dresses into a nice blouse for the events of today. From the light of the window his form can be seen, a skinny figure without too much muscle or food to build him up. His face is pale in the morning light, splotched by a smattering of freckles that covers his cheeks and nose. A mop of brown hair lies scattered on top of his face.

"Marius, get out here!" his grandfather calls again, but still not bothering to go up the stairs and into Marius's bedroom to fetch him properly.

"I'm coming, Grandfather!" Marius answers warily, withholding a yawn. "Just getting dressed."

"Well, hurry, then; we only have so many hours of the day until the reaping," Grandfather responds harshly, irritation clear in his voice. "You need to get _some_ food in you before the ceremony takes place."

Marius hurries down the stairs the moment he's zipped his pants, scurrying over to the table that's already set with a full table settings and meal. "Sorry. How long do we have?"

"Hardly time to speak, my boy," Grandfather grumbles in his immense irritation. This Peacekeeper is often so grumpy, to the point that it doesn't even affect Marius's mood in the slightest, his mind too far gone towards his Ursula. This old man wears his traditional Peacekeeper suit, which is a grey that fits into the mood of the reaping. He has a stubbly beard that is almost as bristled as his attitude, growing from his lined chin that well represents the amount of years he has on his back. "I expect they'll be starting on time as they always do, which will be in an hour's time. Come now, Marius, you must make yourself presentable for the reaping."

"Of course, Grandfather," Marius nods in response, the movement and words automatic as he shovels his food in. Again, he's not really listening, because he can still see Ursula's face in his mind's eye, and gazes upon the memory longingly. Perhaps he will be able to talk to her this time, maybe if he's able to stop her before she leaves back to her home through way of the hovercraft. The entirety of it is silly, really; even if he can talk to her, there's little chance they could have more than a few words together, and then she'd be off who knows where. Still, he can hope, dream.

"You're wearing _that,_ then?" his grandfather snorts in disgust, eyeing the clothing in complete disdain. "You must look proper, my young man. Dress yourself as if you were meeting with a lady friend, not that you do that sort of thing."

"That's what I did," Marius mutters in response, his already pink face flushing further at his elder's insistence. "I look fine."

"Nonsense! Must I dress you myself? You have an overcoat, don't you? And a decent pair of trousers, I imagine!" Grandfather flails his arms slightly as he says this, his wrinkles wobbling around his face. "Come, now, you don't have any time to spare; go and redress yourself with some taste."

"Fine," Marius murmurs, shrugging. He doesn't care; but perhaps his grandfather's advice will get Ursula's attention. So he takes his time to choose clothing that no one will make him switch out of. When he returns with a dusty brown coat over the blouse and a pair of grey dress pants, it is time to leave, and his relative is already out the door to perform his duties amongst the masses of the district. Frankly, Marius is relieved that the old man is gone, so he can exit to the center of town in peace, taking his time as he tries to seek out the one face in the crowd who he cares about. He doesn't even have any other friends, since he's never been much for seeking out people; even at school, no one really pays him much head. He's just the strange little boy who's adopted by one of the top Peacekeepers.

His eyes are magnets for her face, and he searches her out immediately, darting about with the other girls who are awaiting the frightening prospect of being chosen for the Hunger Games. This isn't like District 1 or those nearby it; there isn't any cheer, just a nervous, frightened mumble of noise that's closer to silence than the noise level of the mass talking. And yet Ursula is a radiant sun amongst the group, shining even with her obvious nervousness and discomfort, and somehow manages to sooth Marius's own nerves, if just a little bit. With her face in view, he gets into the boys' section. Admittedly, even with Ursula here, he's beyond nervous. Marius can't comprehend how he could possibly be part of the Games, to _kill_ people. Such a thing is completely unspeakable.

The courtyard that's usually empty with its dusty paved ground now has barely enough room to stand in properly. Around the edges of the area, the cameras are everywhere, Peacekeepers from the Capitol rearranging lighting and different cameras to center the attention at the large wooden stage that they've positioned in front of the mayor's mansion. Several people are already up on the stage, the Capitol people standing out the most with their frilly and unnaturally bright and dyed coloring. There are others, too, who Marius knows as the past victors, but there are very few of these; the youngest one who now serves as the mentor is still only slightly younger than Marius's grandfather. It has been a long time since they've had a win, and this old man, who goes by his last name of Mabeuf, is looking with solemn interest over the crowd, his gaze wary. The people he focuses on are the children, separated into the two different groups by their genders in preparation for the ceremony about to begin. The adults are held behind where the children are gathered, too far away to lend a comforting hand. Marius can spot his grandfather, though, who has a stony face that's emotionless as he helps others from the Capitol set up the center stage with even more cameras.

"Attention, attention!" A shrill voice squeaks from a man on stage, his high tones heavily bearing the Capitol accent that's so vividly recognizable. His hair looks like the top of an ice cream cone that has been licked into the air, a spike that bends backwards in its strands of electric blue and vibrant orange, twisted together in a bright mass that almost seeks as much attention as his voice does. His eyelashes are also exaggerated in size and flicked up in the same manner, outlining his grey eyes in a dark rim of purple, set on top of the exotic acid green makeup that circles his eyes even further. His pink suit looks plastic from where Marius stands, a rubbery material that's stretched over his broad shoulders and squeezing at his narrow hips in that ridiculous Capitol fashion. Of course, it's the Capitol representative that comes to choose the tributes each and every year. To Marius, this man has always resembled a large tropical bird much more than an actual person. "Settle down, everyone! It is time for us to begun! For us to choose the victors of this year!" He says everything shrilly, resting on the 'v' in victors for an entire second as he assumes that whoever is chosen will win the Games this year, as he does every year, which is extremely optimistic since they haven't won since he has come to serve at this district. "Yes, that's right; quiet, everyone. Now, before we get to the _exciting_ part, we have a few words from the Capitol itself!"

Marius tunes all of this out, because the words he can recall by heart really mean nothing to him, just a nonsensical reason behind the suffering. Instead, he focuses on Ursula once again. She's standing at the edge of the crowd of girls, her face cast downwards towards the ground with her arms wrapped around herself. It's clear she can't be more nervous, and Marius wishes that there was something he can do to help her through this. As he lets his eyes soak in her beauty, he's almost able to forget what possibility is right around the corner, almost able to detach himself completely from his world and believe that maybe there's some chance that someday he may be able to do more than stare, and actually talk to her, even.

"Wasn't that _lovely_," the capitol representative squeals, clapping his hands together so close to the microphone that the sound echoes slightly in the silence. "Makes me tear up _every_ time. Now, here we have the excitement!" He pounces forwards, drawing one manicured hand into the glass ball in front of him that contains the hundreds of slips, shuffling his fingers around in his own slow time. Finally he pulls out the first one, from the woman's bowl, as it always is done first.

_Please not Ursula, please not Ursula..._ Marius begs in his mind, biting his bottom lip.

"Cosette Valjean," he announces, gazing around the group of girls.

_Oh, thank goodness_, Marius sighs in relief at the words, so thankful that he won't need to watch such a lovely woman fight others to the death.

To his utmost horror and surprise, the woman he identified as Ursula takes a large shaky breath and walks out from the rest, allowing herself to be lead to the center stage. No, this can't be; she can't be Cosette, the victim of this horrid game.

"You must be Cosette Valjean!" the Capitol representative purrs, grinning at the new victor.

"I am," she responds, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

"I bet you anything that with a last name like that you're related to the Jean Valjean, victor of the 24th hunger games! Is that true?" he prods her further.

"It is." Again she answers with two syllables, and Marius almost wishes that he could go ahead and volunteer in her place, almost but not quite—despite her attractive qualities, Cosette still is a stranger. He hadn't even known her correct name.

"Any volunteers?" he asks, his eyes darting about the crowd without really expecting anyone to respond. No one does, and he proceeds to slip his hand in the second bowl, nimbly grasping another slip of parchment. He lifts the paper up to the light, and his lips, which look almost sharp from the way his lipstick is formed, speak the next familiar words with a numb sensation tingling all over Marius's body and causing him to quiver in place. "Marius Pontmercy."

Marius can't move, he has imagined this moment so many times, _dreaded_ it so completely. Now this is reality, he has been chosen, and he's absolutely positive that this means his death. Not only that, but Cosette's also going to die—they're going to be throttled to death together, and that's never how he wanted it to go. This isn't the way he wants to get to know Cosette.

"Marius Pontmercy?" the Capitol representative repeats, gazing around the crowd of boys, searching him out. The others around him part, knowing that he is the victim who is supposed to walk up to the stage like a pig to the chopping block. His name is his death sentence.

"Come on," an older boy whispers to his left, slightly pushing Marius's shoulder to urge him forward. Marius does take this cue, proceeding to stumble forward, shaking from head to toe. This is live, too; all the other tributes will be able to see him and see him as the meat of the games. Marius hardly can make himself care; he's already dead in his mind, anyway. He manages to force himself up the steps to the center of the stage where both the Capitol citizen and Cosette are waiting. He manages to meet her eyes, if only for just a second, to see immense pity lurking there, along with such sorrow. They both know they're already dead.

"Mr. Pontmercy, I presume?" the representative quips, looking down at me with his bizarre stance.

"Yes," Marius replies, not quite understanding how he's able to form words at all.

"Here we have them!" he continues, as if Marius had come onto the stage with no problems at all. Well, such things have happened before, it's hardly a stretch to ignore. "The tributes of the 32nd Hunger Games, District 8!"

There's no response to this, but apparently the man from the Capitol isn't expecting this, either, because he doesn't hesitate before leading the two of them back to the mayor's mansion behind them.

* * *

The tributes of the oncoming game are entitled to quick goodbyes with a few friends and family before being whisked off to the Capitol. Marius only expects one person to come to him, his grandfather, for his mother had died so long ago and his father had abandoned him upon her death. Of course Marius's grandfather is who appears first. They meet in the minute room they are allowed, with plain walling and wooden flooring, a place that could have been one of the factory rooms if it had been created large enough. The first thing Marius notices upon his grandfather's arrival is how red his face is. He's not crying, but simply has a very red face.

"Marius," Grandfather begins, and his voice cracks as he speaks. "Marius, oh, Marius."

"Grandfather," Marius starts, knowing not to embrace the old man, but still finding his own eyes begin to fill with tears as the sight of him. He doesn't want to leave, he doesn't want to die. He tries to say more but is unable, tears rolling down his cheeks and filling his mouth.

"Marius..." his grandfather repeats with a hoarse voice, shaking his head as he surveys the young man. "Why did you do this? Why were you chosen?"

"Grandfather, I don't want this. I want to escape, get out," Marius murmurs, gasping for air. The tears are still coming, and they show no sign of ceasing.

"You had one slip of paper; how did you manage it?" His grandfather's screaming now, and Marius edges away, his tears coming faster.

"I don't want this!" Marius promises, backing up against the wall in his haste to get away from the screaming adult. "I want to be home, safe, with you!"

"You're done," a different Peacekeeper announces, stepping in the room.

"Goodbye," Marius chokes out, watching his grandfather leave, who doesn't say a word as he exits. He feels so incredibly hollow. Is this really how the one person he knows is going to say goodbye? By screaming and blaming him? Is he really going to die so forgotten?

To Marius's greatest surprise, another person enters, a servant girl who hands him a slip of paper. "Marius, this is from your father. He wanted you to have it sooner before he, well, before he died, but that didn't happen. I'm sorry."

"My father?" Marius croaks, taking the slip of paper and opening it. "What do you mean, he died?"

"Passed away a night ago," she informs him sadly, shaking her head. "He was a good man, your father, wanted to see you with all of his heart, but your grandfather wouldn't let him. He watched you grow up, though, tried to protect you as best he could with the distance involved."

"My father..." Marius repeats, his voice at a whisper and his tears falling in a hurricane now. Uncontrollable, unstoppable. He had been told that his father had _abandoned_ him, without a care or a mention of him. But this, this is an entirely different story. His eyes trace the paper, reading the lines that his own flesh and blood had penned in.

_For my son: during my life I gained the title of Baron, but many disputed over my rights to this title, so it shall be passed to my son as he is deemed worthy. Also let it be known that a man by the name of Thénardier saved my life, and that if Marius happens upon him, he will do all he can for the man._

So that's it, the words that he bothered to scribe to Marius. Marius wants to hurl the paper as far as he can away from him in his frustration, but instead clings onto the scrap and presses it to his chest. As little as it is, this is all he possesses of his father's, and he keeps it dear to his heart.

"Thank you," Marius bids the woman, who says farewell and leaves as well. However impossible he might have thought that before, Marius feels even more completely hollowed and empty now.


	8. Chapter 8

The train moves faster than anything that he's encountered in his life, and it's more than disorienting, rocking beneath his feet with a steadiness that seems to threaten to topple at any given moment. He's already unsteady, alcohol from last night or this morning—shit, he can't remember, he can never remember—pulsing against his skull in an almost comforting pattern of aching throbs. He's not sure when this particular wave of intoxication, now beginning to distance itself from the separation of the damned reaping and this stupid train ride that he still hasn't entirely comprehended the significance of, set on, but that does nothing to decrease the reality of the pain it's causing him now.

He knows what's happening. That he's chosen, and that means he's going to die. And yet, try as he may, he can't bring himself to care. Death has never felt particularly threatening, and now, what with the addition of his cheap wine-induced unsteadiness, the whole prospect seems little more than laughable. To be murdered, and probably by a child below even his own scant sixteen years, on a television broadcast across the nation—it's as though the very gods and fates with which he holds so low in his own beliefs have whisked him out of normality, thrown him onto this speeding bullet of a transportation system solely to mock him.

_Here's what you deserve, Grantaire. This is the reward for all your foolishness. Get to die before eighteen, now, you can hardly call yourself a waste when what little you do possess is expended so early on. _

His mouth tastes bitter. He blinks, tries harder to solidify his surroundings. The last few hours are ablaze in his mind—the bright town square, the sounds of his own name, the grin of the Capitol escort and the roar of the crowd, the tears of his sister as she grasped his shaking arms in the last minutes they were given, her pleas falling on his hollow ears. It all whirls within him, and he knows that he should be more emotional than he is, yet can't shake the feeling that it really is just funny. In a dark, macabre sense, but of course that sort of humor's the cleverest, and this truly is the only destiny that he deserves.

Think, no, think. There are cameras on him. That's what she said—cameras, constantly from here on out. He has to pull himself together. _Live for me, _she'd implored with her fingers on his light-scruffed jaw, and proceeded to drown him in all manner of advice that he retains none of now. He knows he won't survive, just like she does. But perhaps he ought to try.

The thought, almost a hope, is quite fleeting, and as soon as it extinguishes itself he finds himself stumbling along the metallic corridor once more, his fingers tracing abstract patterns on the wall as his feet disturb the vivid carpet. It's a colorful pattern, he recognizes, full of all sorts of twisting shapes that seem to undulate before him. God, his head hurts. He can't remember why he's here, what he's supposed to be doing... he's thirsty, and probably for water, though that's far from the liquid that tempts his mind so heavily now. He doubts they'll give him wine, but this is the Capitol, after all, and they are known for being utterly idiotic. Perhaps he'll get the opportunity. The prospect of numbing himself entirely is a bitter comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, especially as the thoughts of his sister sharpen his awareness, threaten to transform themselves into the real emotion that he can't possibly afford right now.

A sharp, repetitive clicking noise draws him back into reality, and he glances up blearily to see that the narrow compartment is no longer unoccupied. Wavering before him are the bright colors of his Capitol escort—he can't remember her name, but she's green, green as a pine tree from her extravagant waist-length hair to her pearlescent twisting fingernails. A dress sheathes her like a lily blossom, and it seems surreal, somehow.

"Now, Grantaire!" she reprimands, using his name like a whip. Her voice reminds him of some glass instrument, not out of delicacy but rather frostiness. "I told you to meet me in the viewing car ten minutes ago now! What have you been up to?"

He feels himself frown. "I'm not supposed to be here," he gets out, and she purses her lips, closing the distance between them with a huff.

"Nonsense. You were chosen! It's your special, special honor to be here. Now, for goodness's sake, don't slouch. You are a guest on this train, and you had best behave like one, young man, if you intend to get support from the audience!" Each of her sentences ends on a flying note, as though she's about to burst into song, and something about it irks his already throbbing brain, sending sharper spikes of pain across his forehead. Her nails work more than her fingers as she adjusts his shirtfront; he wore nothing special for the reaping, and it's clear from the downward tilt of her bejeweled eyebrows that she highly disapproves of his casual attire. Still, she expects herself to be able to fix it, and he supposes she will, in whatever demented way she and his stylist can come up with.

"Now, that's a bit better, don't you think? Keep a smile on, there's a good boy! Now, let's get back to the viewing car, your friend is already waiting!"

He takes a long moment, trailing after her grasshopper-like skipping steps, to realize that the _friend _she refers to is his partner, the girl chosen from District 12. He can't even remember what she's called, and doesn't receive any sort of reminder as they enter the compartment a few minutes later. The door slides open to reveal her—she's young, younger than him, but appears far from frightened. She has a long neck and a gaunt face spattered with freckles, inlaid with large, dark hazel eyes that regard him warily. Even now, she sees him as an enemy. He wishes he could laugh at her bizarre caution; he's nothing to be afraid of. Surely she must realize that.

"Mm, yes, good, good. Now we're all here together, nice and cozy, isn't that right?" The escort fluffs her pine-tree skirt and sits primly upon one of the two long thick-cushioned couches, arranged as a triangle, the hypotenuse of which is formed by a wide, thin-screened television. It's currently dark, emblazoned only with the faintly blue Capitol insignia, and the escort softly hums the national anthem as she pats the space beside her, presumably indicating that Grantaire sit. He does, but not in the space she offers, instead flopping against the side in a heavy action that shakes the cushions beneath him. The other tribute scowls even more darkly, but he doesn't return the glare, doesn't even meet her eyes. He tilts his head back, exhaling slowly. The wine on his breath can probably be tasted in the air, but he doesn't give much care to it. He doubts they'll be bothered. It's clear enough that he's half-drunk, anyways; they don't need material confirmation to be sure of that much.

"This is the fun part," the escort half-whispers, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "You get to see who you'll be playing against!"

"You mean who we'll be killing," the mousy girl interjects. Her voice is surprisingly gravelly.

"Well—yes, yes, but it's all part of the festivities!" the escort trills.

Grantaire shakes with silent laughter. He decides that he likes his fellow tribute, grouchy as she is, and hopes in a vague part of his mind that she might manage to outlive him. Of course she won't be able to win—she can't be more than fourteen, and he's never in all of his years of inebriate and sober observation seen such a young participant be crowned victor—but it's a nice thought, that she might get a bit of attention before they slaughter her.

The escort draws her fern-hued lips into that odd pout again, but before she can say anything against either of them, the screen flashes with light and the very tune she'd been murmuring blasts from hidden speakers. She squeals in delight, drawing her legs up like a child about to watch its favorite film, and Grantaire only stops from rolling his eyes with the thought of how physically painful such an action would be. He affixes his gaze vaguely on the screen instead, paying no attention to the words of a round-faced, ginger-chopped man in typical Capitol makeup that drones out some repulsive opening speech. All of the tributes are watching this now, he realizes slowly—this is when they all first see each other, and not only will he be taking in them, but vice versa; he knows without a doubt that every one of his opponents, not only the Career tributes, will mark him down as an easy target. He isn't likely to last out the bloodbath.

The dry speech, unsuccessfully attempted at being made more interesting by the announcer's springy voice and glittering effects around the screen, comes to a close, and the plain background collapses to reveal the bright, sunny square of District 1. It's a remarkable contrast from the reaping that he's grown up with; rather than standing about in ragged handfuls of people, these citizens are mulling about proudly, shouting to one another, potential tributes showing off their build and confidence as if it really is a lighthearted competition rather than some sick death battle among adolescents.

Thankfully, the footage skips through the mayor's speech, and then there's a woman with a head of shifting-colored hair at the front, dipping her hand into a glass bowl with a simpering smile cast towards the camera.

"Now, whoever she calls probably won't be the one to play," the escort whispers, sounding like a young girl with a juicy secret. "The first few districts usually use volunteers only!" Like they don't know. Like Grantaire and the other haven't watched years and years of the damned Games already, like they could erase those memories if they tried.

Sure enough, there's a stir as soon as the name is called. One girl is traded out for another, and Grantaire still doesn't care, still can't help but wonder whether any of it really even matters. They're all caught up in this bloodied spider web, and it's really sickening how they dance around it, play within its slick grasp as though coming out on top will bring them any sort of genuine victory. Likewise, the boy's name is called, and a dark-haired figure from the crowd snarls in frustration. Grantaire's insides rot with apathy. He starts down the aisle, fists clenched, jaw stiff.

A stir pulses through the crowd of seventeen-year-olds.

Something trembles in Grantaire's stomach in the moments before the source of the disturbance emerges. For an instant, all the sound ringing so painfully through his head is sucked away as if in a complete vacuum, and he can only make out the slight catch of his own breath, heat and cold simultaneously battering at his face as the screen burns through his perception, all he can detect, all he can comprehend. This is a far more vivid isolation of his senses than any petty upset that rocked him at the sound of his own name, and he feels, in that instant, on the brink of something. Something momentous.

The golden-haired boy emerges, and his amazement crystallizes.

He can barely detect the voice as the crowd murmurs in astonishment, but he can see the fine lips moving, and watches without blinking as the initial tribute is shoved aside, as this bronze-gilded deity moves to take his place, head high, eyes bright and nearly smiling. As he approaches the stage, the camera cuts quite suddenly to a close-up, and Grantaire can't remember how to breathe as the volunteer's face fills the screen. He is beautiful. Golden curls frame regally crafted cheeks, a strong jaw and wide blue eyes, and all Grantaire knows is that the feeling emerging inside of him now, strengthening and solidifying as the new tribute takes his rightful place beside the Capitol woman, is new, unlike anything that has ever touched him before. And it is remarkable. It pierces like a shaft of lightning through the haze of his mind, clearing all the doubts and confusion condensed there, rendering everything pure, straightforward, easy.

He doesn't realize he's leaning forward until the other tribute clears her throat in irritation, and even then he doesn't care. His ears ache as voices pound out, the Capitol woman's high and piercing. _"Now, let's all calm down and listen to what this young man has to say—what's your name, sweet?"_

The blue eyes shift, and when they affix themselves perfectly onto the camera, Grantaire feels a raw shock surge through his spine. He cannot help but feel as though the even stare is directed straight towards himself, and he can't feel his own lips, knows only that they must be slack in enamored breathlessness, that he is shaking inside and out with the extent of the emotion thrumming through him.

_"Enjolras." _

Grantaire hears his breath rush out but cannot feel it. He does not understand the sensation clasping him, knows only that it is foreign, and stunning in its unfamiliarity.

_"And what about your last name, Enjolras?" _

_"It is my last name." _

The crowd roars and fanfares are rung; the two tributes join hands and then it's a cut to District 2, but Grantaire's mind is still in the seconds before, adhered to the brilliance that he had glimpsed so briefly and yet so profoundly. It takes long, trembling minutes, and through the whole of the female tribute's selection, he holds in his mind only the image of the golden-haired Enjolras, repeats and repeats the striking instant upon which he first sighted him, savors the shuddering glory that fills him at the very thought.

_Hope. _

The word emerges unbidden, and it courses repeatedly through his thoughts as a pale, dark-haired fifteen-year-old, sparkling-eyed and long-limbed, volunteers as male tribute. _Hope, hope, hope. _

_That's what you feel. Is it so hard to recognize, now? _

The rest of the reapings, which he fully expected to be a tedious thing to sit through, whisk along rapidly. District 3 offers a pale girl and a solemn-faced blonde boy; both of District 4's are eighteen-year-olds, powerful and brooding; District 5 pulls in a light-haired girl, doe-eyed and thin-framed, and an older boy who curiously has no hair at all, his bare pate glinting under the sunlight. District 6's girl is lovely, golden-haired but remarkably fragile, and he figures she won't last long, along with her partner, a miserable-looking twelve-year-old boy. The girl from 7, laden with rust-colored curls, looks much stronger than her straggling, dark -haired partner, whose features never shift from an expression of acutely terrified concern. District 8 presents a freckled boy and a lovely blonde girl; 9, an unremarkable girl and a young but muscular boy whose eyes are fiery with eager anticipation of the battle before him. In District 10, a pale, dark-haired girl with a horrible fixation of horror over her delicate features is reaped alongside a sturdy boy with curly hair clinging to his neck, and 11's are siblings, a skinny brunette girl and a ragged blonde boy; curiously, there seem to be no distraught parents in the crowd. Names race through his mind as he takes in the sights emptily, few of which properly attach themselves to their bearers: _Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, Musichetta, Cosette, Bahorel, Gavroche. _

They are meaningless to him. None imbue him with that ringing sense upon which he still soars, the giddy high induced by the first volunteer, the golden-haired boy who held himself so proudly, whose eyes shone with such utter strength.

_Enjolras. _

It is not a name that he will forget.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** _Very fond of girl!Jehan. So..._

* * *

Jehanna Prouvaire can't bear the thoughts concerning what is coming next. The tributes have been chosen, the course set, the reapings shown, and the train is slowly but surely leading her and the other tribute from her district to the Capitol, where they'll await their fate. She doesn't want to comprehend that soon they'll be amongst the flashy crowd of strangers that are going to watch her kill and die amongst a group of other killers and children. That's all they all are in the end: children, sent away from where they suffered in their natural habitats already to kill each other on camera. It's a sort of sacrifice. The real question is, what is this sacrifice even aimed towards? Who is it going to save? Maybe there's a chance that without this game, another war would break out, but that's not anything that's definite, causing the whole tribute situation to be very pointless. At any other time, Jehanna would be writing a poem about it right about now, to leach the anxiety from herself and onto paper. But now she can't even do that, for her nerves are so stressed she can't force her brain to simplify itself enough for a poem, which is a frightening notion altogether.

She's not alone in her compartment, but instead chooses to act as though she is, staring out the window to see the ruins of North America flee to every side of her, announcing that it's still a while yet until their arrival into the Capitol. There is some food laid out on a large table beside her, but she can't bring herself to eat much, nerves twisting around in her stomach too much. There is also the presence of two people also in this section of the train: the other tribute, who's a pathetic little boy who can't be more than twelve, and their mentor, Jean Valjean. The little boy looks like he's already given up, which is probably a fair bet on his part. Unless he's a remarkable killing machine, or can last out until the very end, he has very little chance against the other victors, there are too many that are older during this year. Jean has also been out of sorts since we watched the reapings of the others, from before when he seemed at least very helpful towards the other tributes' cause. Now he's a stone in his chair, his breath ragged and clearly panicked in his soft, silent way. The reason is clear; even the man leading the reaping in the district had knew that the female tribute from District 8 is Jean's daughter, and decided to announce this fact to the world.

Jehanna might have a chance, maybe, but it's very doubtful. As mentioned before, there are so many older tributes this year, a few of them even being volunteers, that the possibility of surviving is so very slim that she doesn't dare hope for too much. Besides, there may be some other complications even before the Games start out, if luck keeps going down this destructive road.

Suddenly, the vision out of the window shifts, the Capitol clear in the distance. Jehanna's gaze is locked on the incoming architecture and lights that gleam from the barren wasteland of the area around it.

"You're going to want to show yourselves off once we get to the Capitol, pretend you're not afraid and play the likable good little children who are about to murder for their entertainment. You're going to need to get people to like you to get sponsors," Jean murmurs, the first thing he's said since the reaping, and the information startles Jehanna enough that she glances up at him before returning her gaze to the window.

It takes less than a minute to arrive into the city after spotting it from the window. It's a flashing maze of nightmares, large industrial buildings spinning up from the ground, but worse yet are the people. They look like flowers, crammed into every space on the ground as they welcome the incoming train, flashy bright colors decking them. Between their glimmering makeup and their exotic hairdos, each of them looks plastic, little dolls calling out and waving viciously in the direction of our window. _You're going to need people to like you_, Jean repeats in Jehanna's mind, the words from one of her friends also playing back in her mind: _You need to jump through the hoops and turn yourself into a frightening monster to force your way through this mess, Jehanna. You need to play the game just as much as the game plays you._ So she does force herself to play this game, smile brightly out the window, wave towards the mass of flowers. It helps to imagine them as the soft-petaled beings of life—they don't cause death, they wouldn't watch on with glee as children massacred each other for their enjoyment. The blurry faces that are barely visible as they fly past, grinning at Jehanna, cheering on, _ants_ scrambling around on top of their pile of dirt. The ironic thing of this entire situation is that these Capitol people think they're better, too, superior because they have been born in a place where they can be properly fed each and every night. When, really, they're just more inexperienced, fattened up so much by their luxurious life that they are mindless enough to think that watching children killing each other is entertainment.

All at once, the crowd vanishes as they plunge into a building's tunnel before slowing into a stop. They have arrived.

* * *

"You're going to go with the stylists now," Jean is telling both Jehanna and the other tribute. "They're going to brutal in how much they polish and shine you, before eventually dressing you up for the opening ceremony. The best thing to do is to just go along. They won't actually hurt you; in fact, they're trying to help you make an impression."

"Jean?" Jehanna murmurs, attempting to swallow down her unease. She knows how this is going, how it's going to complicate things. She can't do this.

"Yes?" he responds, not really smiling but looking down on the child with a kind sympathy that she finds reassuring. He still seems so incredibly sad, but he's talking now, and at least attempting to help.

"I can't do this," Jehanna admits, biting her lower lip. They're walking down a long, glistening hallway, getting closer and closer to the place that the stylists will be willing to see them at.

"It'll be fine. I promise this isn't anything that will be harmful," Jean assures her with a bitter smile. "Just best to get it over with."

"No, I mean, it's going to complicate things too much," Jehanna clarifies, taking a large uneasy breath. "I might get—they can't see me naked."

"I'm sorry, Jehanna, but there isn't a way to avoid this," Jean replies, his tone grim. "Shouldn't be more dangerous than anything in the Games, I can promise you that."

He doesn't understand, can't get the hint. But maybe Jean does understand, but really is so truly helpless in keeping this complication at bay. Whatever the reason, there's no stopping what's coming as Jehanna separates from both Jean and the other tribute as she enters the room nervously.

Immediately, she's swarmed by a crew of Capital people, who block Jehanna's sight from anything else in the room. They're bright colors of neon pink, acid green, and a blinding turquoise. The three of them all have their own colors, bopping around her in excitement; the first pink one has hair that whips up into a gigantic curlicue that stands a foot above her head, which is made even more impressive by the fact that this person is even shorter than Jehanna; the second has green hair that bobs this way and that above the dark green eye makeup that stretches across half of her forehead; the third has their hair twisted back, but a gigantic hat fanning out around the bun. The three of them together looked rather comical, tropical flowers dancing about in the stiff building's air. They don't look unusual next to all the other people who live in this wretched Capitol. Jehanna can't even pretend to be affected by their presence, even though she knows that this is where the trouble is going to lurk, this is where things are going to go even more to hell then they already are. But these flustered people are just the messengers, the flowers, drifting in the wind with less of a mind than they have petals. Which is saying something, because although they have color, no petals bother growing upon their skin that is so reshaped into 'stylishness' that they would even be more natural if they had flowers budding out of their features. They're talking, too, with large bubbly voices that squeak out in the Capitol accident that grates on the ears so profusely.

"You must be Jehanna!" the green one pipes, smiling widely between her leafy lips. "I'm Cornelia; this is Flavia and Cecelia. We're your stylist team!" She says everything as though it's some grand news that Jehanna should be so thankful for her to reveal. But, then again, it is very much like every other person in this city, so it comes as no surprise.

"Hello," Jehanna responds, sighing deeply once again. She has to keep breathing, in and out, one second after another. The anxiety is now building up inside her to the point where it's suffocating, her stomach becoming such a clenched ball that she feels as though there's no way for it to relax again, just get tighter and tighter. She knows what's coming, and how there's no way to stop it. So many damn situations like this, but here, this is the costly one. _Well_, Jehanna reasons to herself, _If I die from this, I won't even have to try through the Games, won't have to kill anyone, or have any sort of terrible ways of death in that arena. Maybe I should consider this a blessing, anyways; I have little chance amongst the others. Perhaps this is a kindness. Maybe I should at least look at it this way._ She becomes so lost within her own thoughts that she doesn't give any heed to the stylists, who are still circling her like over excitable puppies, speaking words that Jehanna can't find herself listening to. They lead her over to a clean, white bed that dauntingly resembles the ones that belong in a hospital. They lay her down on the surface, and she can't help but squirm, knowing what's about to happen.

"Alright, we're just going to get all that icky hair off your body," Cecilia purrs in that high accent. Damn, here they go. Holding her breath, Jehanna takes the clothing off from her home that protects her from the scornful eyes of any around her. That protects people from realizing—

"Oh my God, you have a penis!" Cornelia squeals, backing away in horror as though she's been struck. "You're not a woman at all!"

"No I—I am, I swear," Jehanna responds, trying to keep the clear panic from her voice. "I'm a woman in a man's body. I promise."

"How do they have a man in a woman's place?" Flavia howled, shaking her head back and forth, ignoring Jehanna's own words that explained that exact thing.

"Really, it's nothing to get worked up about," Jehanna promises, finding herself flushing and stuttering with her words. She knew this would happen, from the moment she heard her name drawn for the Hunger Games. They need to understand, she needs to _make_ them understand, for her life could depend on it. She doubts the maiming of words she has sometimes gotten back in her district is the farthest they're going to go now. "I just have a...girl penis because my body doesn't work well with my mind. Just, do what you'd normally do with any other female tribute."

"But you have a penis! How are we supposed to work properly on someone whose body is such a freak!" Cornelia asks, absolutely screaming at this point.

"Just, please... try," Jehanna growls, shaking; there are tears now, stinging the corners of her vision. The damn thing is that she knows these people are just so completely _thick_ and stupid that she won't be able to convince them that she's simply female born in a man's body. And it's hard to watch this scene deteriorate, bit by bit. What are they going to do to her? Execute her for 'cheating' the reaping process and getting chosen in a different gender? Let her free from the Games? Doubtlessly if that's all they publicize, she will suffer further in other ways, behind the eyes of the public. They will find a way for her to suffer.

Suddenly Jean opens the door to come in, his gaze fierce as he glowers around the room, taking in the scene around him. He is angry, Jehanna can see that in his step, in the gleam in his eyes, but who he is angry at isn't something that Jehanna isn't aware of.

"Stylists, please, let's settle down," he commands, walking into the room swiftly, his brow furrowed at the scene before him.

"Jean, your female tribute is, in fact, male. You can see why this would be a problem," Flavia titters nervously.

"Honestly, I cannot. You still have your two helpless tributes and the _public_ still believes there is one male and one female," Jean replies calmly, standing next to Jehanna and resting a hand on her shoulder. His presence is to the point of frightening, and it's definitely taking its effect on the stylists. However, Jehanna knows with immense relief that her mentor is on her side. "It should be simple to continue on normally with this slip up; it could be the Capitol's fault just as much as Jehanna's. Just do as you normally do, and I promise she won't be any trouble."

"Fine," Cornelia mutters after a long pause. "I hope he doesn't mind wearing a dress; we can hardly change his costume at this point."

"_She's_ fine with dresses," Jehanna corrects, barely able to believe that Jean has cleared their minds enough to continue as normal. Cornelia nods in response, still distracted by the unexpected body part. Thankfully, there are no more interruptions through the rest of the process, and Jehanna finds herself fully dressed for the opening ceremony, sitting by a very worried Jean.

"Thank you," Jehanna murmurs to him, ducking her head down into her lap through her unease.

"Of course, Jehanna," Jean assures her, smiling sadly in her direction. "I am here to help until the end of these Games. However, you should know that words are going to get out to the higher levels of this government about the gender confusion. They'll be scientific about the matter and only take your body's sex into consideration."

"Oh," Jehanna responds, the one word causing her to deflate. Granted, she expected this, but it's still hard to hear it from a source so definite. "What's going to happen?"

"Well, they won't be able to directly do anything obvious to you while you're involved in the Games," Jean starts. "But the Head Gamemaker may be charged with making your life a hell in the arena. Now what you need to do is keep your head down and not to attract any attention."

"I can do this," Jehanna says, nervously. She's not going down in this without a fight.


	10. Chapter 10

Éponine Thénardier has never felt so exposed. She has grown up with freedom in the loosest sense, traversing the dirtied streets of District 11 unhindered by the parents whom she never knew. The Hunger Games has only been a lingering sort of threat, pressing in on her like distant storm clouds, heavy with menace but surely never to strike her. Her sole drive has always been her younger brother—making sure that he has enough to eat and a place to sleep out of the summer rains; it's all she knows. Putting him before her, and living for the next day, the next session in the orchards and the next chance at a scrap of food that she can keep for herself, rather than offering to Gavroche or giving up to the Capitol for which they harvested. Her life has made it difficult enough to keep afloat and in line—the thought of a cordoned-off arena, reserved for the torturous but speedy slaughter of herself and a number of others, has always seemed, as a distant concept, practically blissful.

And yet she is here now. She is here, and so is Gavroche, and the emotion spiking through her is pure, raw terror.

Her first instinct is to protect him. She knows they can't both make it out, but her prime thought is that she can help to keep him alive, remain his ally through the end of the Games and then find some way to off herself, before the Gamemakers dare to try and bring him down. He'll be able to manage, back in their district—would probably be able to even without the victors' provisions, but they'll be a reassuring surplus, in any case. And that will be that. Easy. She probably knows more about survival than near every other tribute in the arena, and coupled with him, the path to the disgusting mockery of a victory will be straightforward.

Nonetheless, she can't breathe for her fear.

She's expecting a forest, or a jungle—somehow has fixed that in her mind as the sole obstacle ahead of them, threw it over the whole of her perception the instant her name was called. And yet her surroundings now are the stark opposite: unnatural shades of already neon colors burn against her eyes, and the noise surrounding her is perhaps some imitation of music, though the thought that it could be considered such is really quite revolting. Everything about the city that now sprawls around her in expansive glittering glory is gag-worthy, and she does feel a physical nausea in her stomach, increased by the absence of Gavroche, whom they took away the second they reached the tall building where the tributes will be staying for the three days of training that precede the Games themselves. Being inside the towering complex is far from a break, since the sounds and lights and here are just as vivid, the shapes just as bizarre—of the objects, the rooms, even the people who swarm and dart about like poisonous insects.

Currently, three of these people are buzzing around her, one with eyes that cast a tangerine glow over the unnaturally sharp planes of his face, one with transparent eyebrows curved to a disconcertingly wide arch, and one whose skin is drenched in some sort of ink that gives it the appearance of green and red stripes, from the root of her golden hair to the confines of her skimpy blouse and nearly nonexistent skirt.

"Now, now, darling, we're only going to take a look at you, make sure your body's in its proper state for your stylist!" the orange-eyed man trills, as his fingernails, so long that a slight curl tilts their ends, reach for the collar of the dirty corset and skirt she wore to the reaping.

"Don't touch me!" she snarls back, her hands balled into fists as she steps away. She's sure there are cameras on her, but also can't bring herself to care. It's only a matter of time until her death, now, and the agony contained in her last few days can't count for much. Logic, in any case, is hushed by the fury that rages behind her eyes and under her tongue, a metallic burning sensation ignited by the pressing insistence of this plastic trio. They're all she can see, terrifying in their bright colors and unnatural contortions, and genuine fear sets her heart hammering like a rabbit's.

She doesn't belong here. It's too bright, and it smells wrong, and she needs her brother back—they're blurring before her, until she no longer sees people at all, only monsters, feathery and vivid with acid color. A muted scream tears itself from her lips, and she lashes out, striking furtively at them, shaking with the completeness of her primitive panic.

Her blow, imbalanced as it is by the blurring of her eyesight, falls short of its target, and the alarmed expression twisting the painted features of the light-browed man, the one she had aimed for, only casts his face into a yet more unnatural appearance. Stifling a sob, she stumbles a bit further back—her head is humming, now, and she can barely hear her own breath, is aware only of the fact that she is violently overheated and can't stop trembling—_"Don't touch me," _she repeats, half a cry and half a shriek, but they are relentless. They're going to hurt her, they're going to destroy her, by the time they're done with her she won't be able to lift a finger to save Gavroche when he's thrown into the mess of the Games—

She barely registers the click of the door sliding open behind her, and thus is frightened nearly into a raging oblivion when she feels cool hands on her shoulder and under her elbow, holding her in place with an exquisite gentleness that couldn't be further from the prods that her prep team is exhibiting.

"Now, now, now," a velvet murmur ghosts against her ear, "what seems to be the problem?"

She immediately recognizes the voice of her mentor, and stiffens in alarm, struggling furtively to pull away from him. She can't glance up, can't look him in the eye—bleak horror is beginning to fall away all at once to reveal a vat of shameful embarrassment underneath, and she takes a deep breath, struggling to calm her heart as it insistently pumps dosage after dosage of hot blood through her already stinging veins.

"Your tribute is intolerable!" the stripe-skinned woman exclaims, looking highly affronted. The two men encourage her with their own cries of repulsion. "She's mad! I would expect better from your district, Montparnasse!"

"Perhaps a bit anxious," he agrees in a light, amiable way that still echoes with some resonance of sleek darkness. "But that's only to be expected. She was just reaped, and alongside her brother, as well… a little fright is perfectly natural." He loosens his grip on her, and she stumbles away, a heated breath catching in her throat as she half-falls into the corner of the room and glares up at him from underneath a frenzied tangle of brown hair.

Montparnasse is a proud young man, impeccable even after the surprise that doubtless came with Éponine's backwards assault. His skin is pale in contrast to the inky curls that spill over his clear forehead, and his features are thin but strong, eyes wide and a green so vivid that she half-believes it to be Capitol-conjured. Rather than decking himself out in any variant of the central city's alarming styles, however, he keeps himself to a fine but visually modest suit, its cut delicately emphasizing a narrow but leanly muscled frame and a posture that makes him look like the most thoughtful of gentlemen.

"This isn't a _little _fright!" the woman objects, her lips curling into a positively mask-like scowl. "She won't let us touch her!"

"Then perhaps you aren't being gentle enough." As if cuing himself with those very words, Montparnasse moves swiftly closer to Éponine, his boots soundless on the light carpet. Her own feet are bare, her battered shoes being the only item of clothing that the prep team managed to properly remove before the panic set in, and she curls her toes into the softness, unsureness rearing inside of her as he approaches.

"You have to understand," he murmurs, locking eyes with her even as he continues to speak to the confused-looking Capitol trio, "that she is not like you. She isn't used to any of this, are you, Éponine?"

"Leave me alone," she gets out through gritted teeth. She doesn't know what gives him the right to be here, whether he's meant to be involved with any stage of the styling process, anyways. And she can't tell whether she wants him here or not. It was certainly a relief for the insistent prep team to be warded off, and yet he is a bit intrusive, himself, what with those large dark eyes and that steady loping walk that makes her feel like a doe in the shadow of a tiger.

Her words don't seem to reach his ears. Rather than reestablishing the distance previously harbored between them, he reaches out, his thin, pale fingers moving as if to caress her cheek. She snaps, her own hand flashing up to whack against his, and he catches her wrist in his grip, the reflex so quick and strong that she finds her breath frozen for a bare instant. With her pulse dashing under his fingers, she can see, for the first moment, how this man might have won his own Hunger Games—he is swift if anything, and the posh air hovering about him like a cloud of rose oil is capable of being extinguished in a bare snap.

She swallows. Somehow, this clear capableness is the opposite of scary. His strength is a reassurance, and her hand goes slack in his, no longer fighting its powerful grasp. He rewards her trust by slipping his fingers through her own, shifting from a death grip to a mellow hand-hold.

"There," he chuckles, this time speaking only to her. He blinks, and it strikes her for the first time how dark and thick the lashes around his blazing emerald eyes are. "You've allowed me to touch you, now why not give them a chance?"

Somehow, she can't find it within her to protest. And so she keeps her mouth shut and her head down as he turns, leads her back to the table that the prep team has set out for her. The three of them are watching in a way that's almost enraptured, looking for all the world as if they've experienced the taming of some wild animal, and she fights to keep her thorny words shoved deep in her throat, to let Montparnasse guide her back. She does have to control herself. She's remembering that now, even as he releases her hand and steps back, as the other three flock in with only a hint more hesitancy than before, as eager as ever to strip her down and take her apart.

Montparnasse won his Games. And she has to win hers, in turn—or nearly win them. Get close enough to kill herself, so that Gavroche can escape. That is what matters. If Montparnasse is the only one who can teach her properly, then she has to be able to show him, to prove to him that she's worthy of his most careful instruction. She must maintain the faith that he seems to have in her now, and if that means keeping her mouth shut and her stare down as these birdlike beings strip her away of all the bitter protection she's managed to retain, then so be it. It's not as if there are any other options.

He exits the room after a few more brief words with the striped woman, and then Éponine is left alone in their company, counting her breaths to make sure she doesn't break again. It's a painful process, but she manages to stay perfectly still and silent as they rip away her clothing and then set about scrubbing her body to raw cleanliness, stripping away all matter of hair and what feels like several layers of skin in the process, until she's sure that her very blood is running under only a minuscule layer of protection, ready to spurt free and stain them all at the slightest lazy touch. Her hair is cleaned and trimmed out of the knotted mess that she's grown used to, and even her eyebrows are plucked, arched into delicate curves that feel uncomfortably unlike her. It's sickening, really, the way that these people prepare her for her death like a prize turkey. Though, of course, she is nothing else—a meal, and the arena is the stove.

It takes an hour at least until they're satisfied with their work. Once that much is done, they step back, mouths awash in oohs and ahs as they survey what they consider to be beautiful work. Éponine cannot stop shivering. Their eyes probe her like needles, and she wraps her arms around her breasts, shoulders hunched and chin pressed into her collarbone so that she can see only her own skin, pretend that they're not here. It doesn't work, of course—instants later they're tittering about, rearranging her posture into something they deem more acceptable, and she has to swallow fiercely to hold down tears from the pure overwhelming pressure of it all. She wants to be back in the orchards of District 11, back in her dirtied but at least somewhat private life. Nobody there ever interfered with her. They all kept to their own business and allowed her to go about her doings like any other person. And yet now her name is being broadcast across the nation—in mere hours' time, she'll be out on the chariots as the opening ceremonies rage through the mind of every Panem resident. She has no idea what her stylist will choose to deck her out in, doesn't even know what to expect of her stylist at all, aside from the fact that they will certainly be no better than the bubbly mess of the prep team.

Stylist, prep team, trainers—they are all identical, no matter how hard they strive to set themselves apart with grotesque surgery and ugly makeup. Every one of them is false, and not a single one gives her reassurance—save, of course, the obvious. Montparnasse is different. He's not truly from the Capitol, here only for her benefit, and he's probably the only person here other than Gavroche whom she's beginning to believe she can trust.

It's nothing definite, of course. He must have killed people, at some point, and his blasé attitude does imply that he won't be incredibly concerned once she dies, either. Such is the way of the mentors, the victors. They've trained themselves into distantness—just like Gavroche will have to. The thought twists her stomach, though nowhere near so much as that of him dying. She loves him, loves him more dearly than anything else on the planet, and, for the briefest of moments, can think only that she is glad—glad that she will be dead before she has the chance to see him transformed into a monster by the sting of victory. She doesn't want to have to think about that, for surely it will only cause her to question her decision, wonder whether what she's doing in saving him at the cost of herself is really worth it, whether it wouldn't be better for she herself to die.

Luckily, any such dangerous musings are cut off by the click of the door opening once again. She turns, half-expecting Montparnasse, but is rewarded instead by the sight of a Capitol woman far more extravagant than any of the prep team. Her eyelashes are bubble-gum pink and nearly an inch long, her teeth bracingly white and permanently affixed in a wide grin, and oddly green-tinted blush stains cheeks that are otherwise a nearly orange-tan. Most remarkable of her whole appearance, however, can be nothing but her hair—it extends in massive spikes like the crude rays of a lavender sun around her heart-shaped face, so stiff that Éponine cannot help but imagine that, upon touching the tip of one of the bristly locks, she might end up cutting herself.

"Would you look at that!" the stylist screes, hands flying to her cheeks in an exaggerated expression of excitement as her wide eyes, backed by violet shadow but seemingly their natural shade of hazel, stretch even further. "What a pretty, pretty little girl—or at least she will be by the time I've had a go at her, won't she?" A minute twitch stirs the air around her lips as she hacks with high-pitched laughter, and Éponine realizes with a dull shock that the woman has _cat whiskers, _extending several centimeters from under her nose. The sight imbues her with a physical nausea, but she tames it, remembering again Montparnasse's calmness, clinging to thoughts of her brother and how he must be handling this. Gavroche, surely, is far less anxious about it all than she is. He's smart, and he'll be keeping to himself, biding his time and evaluating his surroundings—won't, of course, have broken down like she did.

Montparnasse, Gavroche. They, she knows, are human. They're sane and reasonable, just like she has to stay. The woman approaching her now doesn't matter, and neither does whatever absurd and humiliating outfit she's going to end up in. Nothing at all matters except for her getting through the Games. Fundamentally, this is not about fashion or gaudiness or willing disfigurement, though the prep team and the stylist seem keen on thinking otherwise.

No, this is about survival.

And if there's one thing that Éponine Thénardier has taught herself in all her years on her own, that is how to survive.


End file.
